


Those Binary Stars

by human_dreamer_etcetera



Series: Those Binary Stars [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: (seeing as that's practically a requirement), (which really should be a Real Tag), All of everyone's usual baggage, But also, Endeavour Morse Has ADHD, Endeavour Morse Whump, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I'll try to update this as we go, I'm so excited that's a tag, Mutual Pining, OKAY we're going to try adding tags now, Slow Burn, Some OCs make an appearance, Trauma, a sprinkling of case drama! including kidnapping!, for instance I fully intend to let other characters shine later, house decorating, idk guys if I try to tag this nicely it will never get posted, minor peril too, oh and there's Morse holding a baby, okay now I'm having too much fun tagging; I should stop or I'll tell the whole story in the tags, only for a bit but I nearly did my own heart in by writing it so it bears mentioning, there's some Scrabble, uhh, why is tagging so overwhelming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 38,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23071225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/human_dreamer_etcetera/pseuds/human_dreamer_etcetera
Summary: They spend what seems like eons orbiting each other before they collide.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Joan Thursday
Series: Those Binary Stars [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822189
Comments: 399
Kudos: 114





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a reference to one of the DM Barcroft interviews with Russell Lewis, in which the latter comments, on Joan and Morse, "One of the great, unlooked for delights of writing this thing has been charting the push and pull of those binary stars. Who knew?" 
> 
> This is mostly canon-compliant through S5, and starts to deviate somewhere in/around S6. We may know there's no long-term happiness in store for Morse, at least not in this domain, but the opportunity to play in a lovely little sandbox where we can ignore the inconvenient parts of canon and polish the bits we like best until they shine is too good to pass up!

In the beginning, the first time Morse sees her, Joan orders him into her family’s house and all of their lives. 

They keep brushing past each other, passing electric sparks each time, but without lasting connection. In those early days, eye contact is mostly via mirrors, shy glances and tentative smiles. Joan is braver by far, but even she only dares push so far before drawing back.

It’s not the story either of them expected, and sometimes one or the other is dizzy with not knowing how to play their part. But it’s a fun game they’re playing, that’s all, isn’t it? No harm in it. 

* * *

Family hasn’t meant safety and affection to Morse in a long time. That begins to change, the more he interacts with the Thursdays.

The strangest part of it, Morse reflects, is that it no longer feels strange. The Thursday household has become his second home - more than his own, at that. He no longer feels that same thrill of trepidation crossing the threshold, though he’s always mindful of his status as an interloper, no matter how many times Mrs. Thursday assures him he’s welcome. Still, he does try, for their sakes, to push himself beyond his comfort zone, accepting sandwiches on occasion (he’ll stuff down a bite with Fred’s wary eyes on him), accepting Sam and Joan’s congenial teasing, accepting - tonight - an invite for tea from his mentor. It’s hardly the first time, but he still hunches awkwardly in corners, waits to be invited into conversation. On the other hand, he’s been here enough times that he knows where to find Win’s favorite knife for peeling the potatoes, and he helps her chop carrots before she shoos him into the living room to “catch up with the boys.”

Morse tries to point out that he’s just spent the entire day with Thursday, and therefore has very little in the way of catching up to do, but Win won’t hear of it. She knows exactly when he’s avoiding social interactions, and nudges him along anyway. It’s times like these that he can imagine what she was like in Joan and Sam’s childhood, gentle yet commanding at once. He’s sure, between Win’s savvy and a copper for a father, the two of them got away with very little.

“Joan’s not due back from the bank for almost an hour yet, but Sam just got in,” Win tells Morse . “He’s been testing Fred’s patience lately, so I’m sure he’d appreciate a buffer. Now run along, food’ll be ready before you know it.”

Reluctantly, Morse slinks into the living room and sits down at the spot Thursday gestures to, and almost immediately regrets it. When Joan arrives forty-five minutes later, she makes eye contact across the room to a harried Morse stuck between feuding Sam and Fred. His eyes widen a fraction when he sees her, and he sends her a silent plea for help. She laughs quietly, and takes her time unwinding her scarf and hanging her coat just so, just to see Morse squirm a few more seconds. Sam’s spent the entire time baiting Fred with politically charged barbs he doesn’t even believe in, just to see his dad splutter and turn purple, and Morse has been trapped helplessly between them, attempting valiantly to make himself invisible.

Joan debates for a moment whose side she should take, and settles strategically on soothing her dad, as the party less likely to let go peacefully without her intervention. However, she goes to stand beside Sam, both in sibling solidarity and to put her nearer to Morse. “Sam, stop poking the bear,” she admonishes, “you’re going to drive Dad to an early grave.” She winks at her brother, who deflates slightly.

At his daughter’s presence, and taking his side no less, Fred softens. “Poking the bear? Are you saying I ought to eat less of your mother’s cooking, then?”

“I’d say no such thing.”

The meal is a comparatively calm affair. Morse has been around enough that they don’t show off for him so much anymore; Sam and Joan bicker over which direction to pass the potatoes, Fred sighs heavily at Joan’s stories about a recent date, and Win grumbles about having no help with the dishes. (Morse offers to dry, at which point Sam, prompted by a glare from both parents, jumps in to assist.) In spite of it, or perhaps because of it, there’s always an authentic warmth to the Thursday family interactions, a sense of belonging that Morse craves.

After tea, Joan pulls out a Scrabble board and tugs at Morse’s wrist to pull him into the living room. It’s an innocent enough touch, but Morse startles anyway. Joan has that effect on him, in spite of… everything. All the excuses he mentally rehearses don’t drown out the small zaps of electricity that tend to crop up when she’s around.

“Now, Morse,” Joan admonishes, wagging a finger playfully in his face, “go easy on us, yeah? Maybe don’t be… you.”

Morse offers her one of his charming tucked-in smiles. “That seems like a promise I can’t keep.”

Morse and the Thursdays each have a characteristic style which showcases itself early on: Fred is practical, consistent if not the best, and cuts off muttered curses at a bench that seems to magically replenish itself with purely vowels each turn. Joan’s signature move is well-placed short words; the hefty consonants seem magnetically drawn to her fingers in the bag, and likewise to the score multipliers on the board. Win, as an avid reader, is blessed with an abundant vocabulary, and plays her turn quickly, yet tends to opt for low-scoring moves. Sam is a weak speller, but excels at blocking plays his opponents have spent several turns eying, which earns him plentiful groans and even, once, a whack upside the head from a frustrated Joan (Win’s disapproving raised eyebrow discourages her, but Fred tosses her a wink when he thinks her mother isn’t looking). Morse, to no one’s surprise, puts his crossword hobby to good use, and pulls out ridiculous words none of them have ever heard of - he’s frequently challenged, despite being able to cite an approximate definition each time. Fred knows the lad’s cocky confidence well enough to pull out the dictionary; though he very much doubts his bagman’s ability to pull off a knowing bluff without a tell, a lifetime of policework has made him a mite suspicious of the mind’s ability to invent convenient memories. 

“There,” Joan says with satisfaction, leaning back with a Cheshire cat grin. “Jo, 25 points. Write that one down, then - and no cheating,” she admonishes Sam, leaning over to ensure he records her total accurately.

Both Morse and Win make noises of disbelief. Normally Morse would be hesitant to rock the boat, but he has a wicked competitive streak, and besides, they’ve all challenged his plays enough times. Still, he waits for Win to make the first move; obligingly, she does.

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so, Joan.”

“Yeah? What about you, Morse, our walking dictionary? Do you believe me, or are you siding with Mum on this one?”

The challenge glinting in her eyes ignites a spark somewhere deep in Morse’s belly; he resolutely ignores it. “I echo Mrs. Thursday’s doubt.”

Joan laughs delightedly. “So formal. Well! Is that a proper challenge, then?”

Morse nods, and Joan crows, “To the dictionary! The real one, seeing as the one in Morse’s brain has let me down.” She winks at him, and he can’t help the mild flush that creeps up the back of his neck.

Dutifully, Fred flips through pages and reads out, “‘Jo, a Scottish word for sweetheart.’ Sorry, lad, this one goes to Joan.”

Joan crows in victory, and while Sam rolls his eyes and Fred sighs, Morse smiles genuinely at her; this is a side of Joan he quite enjoys. Gracefully enough, he sacrifices his turn, but gets quick revenge on his next play. The Thursday family squints at the board, where he’s added an R to make Win’s previous “each” into “reach,” and squeezed an E beneath, in a space nearly cut off by one of Sam’s infuriating blocks.

“Re?” Joan says dubiously. “That’s a prefix, Morse; it doesn’t count as a word on its own.”

He raises an eyebrow and mimics her words from last turn: “Is that a proper challenge, then?” 

“Of course it is! That’s in the rules, isn’t it? It has to be a whole word! Dad?”

“That one’s all yours, pet. I’ve had enough of Morse dazzling us all with his intellect for one evening.”

“All right, all right, give it here, then.” Joan’s frown turns into outrage as she reads, “‘The second tone of the diatonic musical scale’ - Morse!” Her whine turns into a laugh halfway out of her mouth. “Of course it is, you and music!”

Later, after a handful of pointed yawns from the elder Thursdays, the Scrabble board has been packed away and Morse is in the hall, searching for a scarf that’s fallen off the banister where he left it. Joan appears at his elbow, and ducks down to retrieve the missing scarf from the ground. “I still think that’s cheating, you stealing my signature like that.”

“Knowing the short words is a vital strategy in Scrabble,” Morse replies, winding the scarf around his neck. “And it’s hardly my fault you don’t remember your music lessons.”

Joan scoffs. “Serves us all right, going up against a man who spends his free time doing the crossword with opera for company.” She straightens his scarf then, and it strikes Morse that they’re really rather alone in the hall - and he suddenly feels awkward around her, despite the ease with which their banter flowed earlier. It’s something different, just him and Joan, as opposed to the way he’s started to fit with the Thursday family as a whole.

He wants to challenge her, to ask what else she knows about him, aside from crosswords and opera and whatever bits and pieces she’s managed to glean about her father’s work. He can’t form the words, but he wants…

Suddenly Sam is there, tugging lightly on Joan’s hair, complaining that she left him with the work of resetting the living room. Joan sticks out her tongue at her brother, and Morse is back to feeling like an interloper, a forgotten observer cataloging family moments. He stutters out a perfunctory goodbye, and vanishes out into the snapping cold air, unable to banish a wistful sort of feeling he can’t quite name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The good news (I think) is that I'm already about 2/3 done writing this thing. I mean, I think - I hope - I am! It's already destined to be twice what I thought I was getting into, so there's really no telling. But, I do have a first draft of the next couple chapters, so with any luck, posting will be somewhat regular, at least in the beginning. I'm not going to pretend all of what I try to tackle in this story is going to be unique, but one of the great joys of fandom is the ways we all have a slightly different take on the ideas presented in canon and what we spin off from that. I also must confess that I didn't put THAT much effort into making sure things sounded appropriately British and 60s... I have great respect for those authors who get those details right, but for me, focusing too much in that direction can wreck the fun of telling the story. So I do apologize for any mistakes! Also, I haven't seen S7 yet (I live in the US), so no fear of spoilers here. That should be most of my notes/disclaimers... Thanks for checking out this story; I'm having a lot of fun writing it, and I hope at least some of you who enjoy it will stick around for later updates as well!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, I am amazed and humbled by the outpouring of attention and kindness you all have granted to this little fic! I did not expect such a warm reception on my first foray into a new fandom! I'm so glad that opener seemingly resonated. I almost feel bad for bringing on the angst starting with this chapter!

Nothing gold can stay, of course. That halcyon period comes to a shattering halt with the events of Blenheim Vale: Fred in hospital, and Morse in prison, not to mention the reverberations from all the secrets they unearthed. Cowley Station is rocked, and the Thursday family draws together in sort of incompletely overlapping circles, the heavy weight of shock and grief between them.

At first, with her father fighting for his life in hospital, Joan feels guilty for even thinking of Morse. At first, she’s even angry - her father shot, and his bagman escaped unscathed? She learns quickly of his unjust imprisonment, though, and then she’s even angrier, but pointed firmly at whatever powers allowed them both to come to this fate. 

Slowly, horribly slowly but surely nonetheless, Fred Thursday heals. The night he comes home, Win shoos the children to bed like they’re five and six again. Joan chafes at being treated like a child, but she understands: there are some things a father can’t stand for his children to see, and weakness is one of them. She hears his stifled groans as he ascends the stairs, and her heart hammers with the recurring realization of what she almost lost.

Despite her mother’s reservations, her dad insists he’s going back to work, “soon as that damn doctor will sign off.” Their whispered arguing drifts down the halls, punctuates breakfasts, clouds over family time in front of the telly, for weeks. In the meantime, some of the other men from the station drop by, usually just one at a time - Win won’t hear of a whole contingent of them interfering with her husband’s recovery, as though boisterous talk will distract his wounds from knitting themselves back together. Joan suspects Mum is more worried Dad will push himself too soon, and maybe she hopes that distancing him from all that work talk will make him less likely to return.

Jakes winks at her, but doesn’t otherwise reference what happened once between them, for which she’s grateful. Joan knows he was involved somehow in the case that led to the shooting, though she doesn’t know details. She suspects that’s just fine with Jakes, who seems jumpier than usual, a bit faded. The effect is heightened on one of his later visits, when he leaves looking crestfallen and rather haunted after talking to her dad. Jim Strange, ever a sweetheart, brings a tin of homemade biscuits, which she nibbles at demurely until he leaves; after, she and Sam nearly come to blows fighting over them. Finally meeting the illustrious Mr. Bright is fascinating; from stories, she’d imagined him to be stuffy, pompous and imposing, not to mention taller! - but in person, he strikes her as a mix of formal and kind, a firm leader with much below the surface. 

That first day back to work, Joan and Sam take turns distracting Mum. Joan has the early shift at the bank, so she leaves Sam to drag Mum to Richardson’s for the food shopping. When she returns, Sam is relieved of duty, and she takes over by asking about the half-finished book on the end table, their plans for a trip to visit Aunt Reenie, the price of apples - anything to occupy Mum’s attention until her father’s hat is hung on the stand that evening.

She’d heard, at some point from one of the coppers, that Morse had been released from prison, and she was relieved. But to hear now (her father lets slip, worried sick as he is) that he’s run off to the woods somewhere, with no plans to return to the police force - something inside of him must have broken, she thinks, because the Morse she knows couldn’t even imagine any other life.

Perhaps inanely, she thinks of that girl Morse was seeing, the one who gave him the scarf - Monica, wasn’t it, the nurse? It seems unlikely they’re still together, with Morse having disappeared. There was a time Joan felt a sort of light jealousy toward the other woman, without any heat, the kind you feel when someone has something you’re not even sure you want. Certainly it sank in her stomach that time Morse had, seemingly unwittingly, made up a four with her and Maureen and Jim , and they were laughing together and she’d almost let herself hope Morse was actually seeing her for once - only for him to pale at the sight of Monica across the room. Once again, Joan was relegated to second string, someone half noticed in shadow. Now, she chides herself for such immaturity. Morse seemed happy with her, and heaven knows the man could use as much happiness as he can grasp. Morse has always struck Joan as someone intensely out of place no matter the situation, and her heart hurts for him, surely feeling utterly alone now. It doesn’t much matter if you’ve wandered off or fled, you’re lost just the same. Joan finds herself fretting over the matter far later into the night than she means to.

She never does learn the whole story behind Morse’s eventual return. From snippets of overheard stories, not to mention the logical assumption of anyone who’s ever known Morse, it’s got to be something to do with a case that drew him back in. Whatever the reason, she’s grateful. Things don’t go back to normal, not exactly, but it’s nice all the same to have him underfoot in the front hall most mornings again. She takes to finishing her makeup downstairs, just for an excuse to watch him in the mirror. He’s still all awkward angles, and he seems to have lost weight. Maybe that’s what’s behind the hungry longing she catches in his eyes now and then. Well, surely prison will do that to a man. Part of her wishes she could be the one to soothe whatever still haunts him. He could do with looking after, some feeding up for sure. She understands her mother’s drive to fuss over her father’s boys from work, though she somehow doubts the inclination is particularly maternal in her case.

Mostly she goes back to teasing him, clinging to the way things were as much as she can. Morse isn’t one to talk about his demons, any more than her father is. Some ways, they’re two peas in a pod. Well, if that’s how it has to be, dancing around each other, light words and secretive smiles, so it is. She’d do anything to see him laugh, and her flirting accomplishes that, at least.

Still, there are times she treads too close to honesty. “Love, I suppose,” she says one day, trying to keep it light but edging far too near to wistful. “Don’t know until you meet the right one.”

He glances at her, surprised, then quashes it into a friendly smile. “No. Don’t suppose.” 

She just catches the thoughtful expression he casts in her direction when he thinks her attention is safely elsewhere, and her heart leaps into her throat, until her father descends the stairs and the moment is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those not following along with my writing adventures on Tumblr, this fic is split loosely into three arcs. These first couple chapters are a bit more Joan-centric, and then we're heavier on Morse's perspective in the middle. I suppose we'll find out if that evens up in the latter third of the story once I've actually written it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bonus chapter this weekend! I wasn't planning to move this quickly, and updates will probably slow down eventually - the final third of the fic is giving me a lot more trouble than it has any right to, very disrespectful of it - but the editing on this went smoother than expecting, and there's no victory rush like posting a new chapter.

The images keep flashing through her mind, quicker than she can process them. The red spread of blood, stark against Ronnie’s white shirt and pallid face. Cole Matthews’ gun pointed at wide-eyed Morse, a goon’s fingers wrapped around her own throat. Cole’s face as he spat at her father over the phone, “Big talk for a lung-er” - she can’t even bring herself to wonder if he was telling the truth, if Dad’s okay now, if…and with Sam gone, and Mum surely falling apart…But her head keeps spinning, and she can’t stop for even a moment, or the memories will pull her under. The walls of the tunnel sliding in and out of focus, Morse’s arms around her as she sagged against him, his body curled around hers like a shield at the sound of a shot. She hears every one of them, over and over, ringing in her ears even in fitful sleep. Her father’s face over a gun barrel, twisted with a fury she’ll never forget. The blank white pages of a pad of secrets she nearly died for, that Ronnie did die for. How much of it inflicted upon her, and how much her fault? The questions won’t stop coming and she’s drowning, she can’t breathe, dying, a part of her has died and a part of her is still, perpetually, dying and they cannot save her, she cannot save herself, and what hope does she have left? 

She’ll bring ruin to them all and then herself. Yesterday and tomorrow equally suffocating. There’s nothing left for her here, nothing she can take.

**

She walks away. She can feel both their hearts breaking, yet she keeps walking. Keeps staring firmly ahead, her staccato steps the only thing she can bring herself to focus on.

It’s not as though she couldn’t hear the words he didn’t say. “You mean the world to them,” well yes, of course; and isn’t that half the trouble? Or perhaps, the cure, and one she can’t bear. And then, his swallowed anguish: “You mean the world…” with that unspoken tagline, “to me.” Tears welling up, his eyes like shining crystal in the pale dawn. 

It wouldn’t have mattered if he had managed to admit it. Whatever ties she has here, they’re only weighing her down. It feels like there’s an anvil on her chest, competing with some wicked blade tearing her open from the inside out, and she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe…

**

The trauma of it’s dislodged a needle somewhere, too, and now that’s floating through her veins. Terror softens into sadness, which then ossifies into anger. She’s played the same part for too long. Joan Thursday, daughter of a copper - it carries a certain expectation, doesn’t it? A prim and proper woman, who never quite ages past a girl; no one the boys can look at twice, not the interesting ones, anyway. And she’s spent too many nights lately home alone with her mother, just the two of them, and that glimpse of the life ahead for her…Clean the house, cook a meal for a husband out till all hours, living a life he can only half tell her about, turn off her brain with something on the telly for a few hours, maybe knit a baby blanket for the neighbors… The only social escape the occasional keep-fit class or a dinner party, all empty heads and stilted conversation.. Nary a risk nor earned reward in sight. It’s suffocating. Maddening, that’s what it is.

(She’s not sure how much of it she truly believes, these bitter thoughts, yet it’s the story she rehearses all the same.)

It’s simpler, easier, to be angry. To lash out at this provincial, prescribed existence, and let that frustration drown out the sorrow. Because if she lets it, the sorrow will pull her under. In the face of such a force, Joan feels small and powerless, and she doesn’t care to dwell on that at all.

**

When she meets Ray, eyes locked across the room one night, she’s only looking to _feel_. For weeks, she’s alternated between numbness and indescribably powerful emotion washing over her like a wave pulling her under, and she’s searching for something to remind her she’s alive, in a way she can handle. Losing herself is all too easy, and an attractive prospect at that. It doesn’t take long to realize he’s already married, but she’s too far gone to care. Their relationship, whatever it is, gives her the bit of excitement, rebellion, she craves. It’s a kind of closeness without being known.

They fight, constantly. It should amaze her, how rapidly he wears her down, but she doesn’t have the energy for such things. The first time he hits her, she’s too shocked to be angry. He’s quick to apologize, full of promises and flowers. “Never again,” he pleads, and she chooses to believe him. For two weeks, it’s like the beginning again, the happy-nervous butterflies and sweet words whispered in her ear.

The second time he hits her, she hits him back. Just a quick swat, but she feels instant guilt. And then regret, when he twists her arm behind her back and yanks her across the room by her hair to shove her against the wall. “Never again,” he hisses, and she knows, one way or another, he must be right. 

The third time, and the time after that, and the time after that, she bites back her cries of pain and reminds herself that this - her freedom, escape, feeling, a relationship without the looming shadow of the person she’ll never be - is worth it. 

The old Joan would never have tolerated anything like this - but the old Joan would never have gotten herself in this mess, would she? And maybe, just maybe, there’s a part of her that believes she deserves it. She has little attachment to Ray himself, but he’s her only tether to the life she has here. He pays her rent (she couldn’t afford it otherwise, not since he insisted she quit her job at the shop), and his apologies keep her stocked in jewelry, flowers, and fun, flirty outfits… which she hardly gets the chance anymore to wear out.

Overwhelmed, in over her head, in a moment of _something_ \- she can’t decide if it’s strength or weakness - she dials Morse’s number. 

His voice on the phone, confused at first and then worried, is an exculpation and indictment in one. She never meant to hurt him. Never meant for things to go this far, either. She just needed to _run_ …

Ever since, in one way or another, she hasn’t been able to stop running, has she? It’s the first time she’s tried to run away from her new home; she hasn’t gotten far, just to the phone booth across the way. She can hardly remember what she did to warrant Ray’s wrath this time. She just remembers adrenaline and panic swimming through her veins, and she fled. With a sinking feeling, she realizes she didn’t even grab her purse on her way out. Will Ray lock her out? Without her keys, she’ll be reduced to begging him to let her in, or a long night in the cold.

“Miss Thursday?” Morse says, from somewhere too far away. Joan lets out a shaky breath. Words escape her. Where to even begin?

She hangs up, ashamed and afraid and utterly, utterly lost.


	4. Chapter 4

Time passes, and he tries to forget, or dull the memory to an ache instead of stab, at least.

She walked away. Then she came back, broken and afraid, and he didn’t know how to put her back together. Or how to help her put herself back together. He’d tried, and he’d failed, and he will never, ever forgive himself for failing her when she needed him most. It felt like a shattering.

And after… After, he thought that door was closed. Thought he’d never see her again, most likely; or if he did, in passing, she’d take no notice of him, nor - outwardly - he of her. There were times he thought he did see her, out the corner of his eye - a glimpse of dark hair and a bright coat - and his heart would seize and his throat would close, and he’d squeeze his eyes shut and inhale sharply and remind himself of the here and now - and then he’d look again, and realize it wasn’t her. It had never been her. And didn’t he feel a fool?

The sting faded, with time. He tried to forget. That goal was made easier, in a sense, with Thursday’s particular style of grief. Reticence and stone-faced silence; he didn’t discuss missing his daughter, and Morse certainly wasn’t about to broach the subject.

And then it happened: she was there, for real this time, and it was nothing he could have prepared himself for.

He’s investigating a case, fiddling with tubes of lipstick, of all things, when the bell dings lightly in the distance. He must have heard the sound half a dozen times since entering the shop, and takes notice of it only in the passing sense in which he unrelentingly observes his surroundings. But then he hears something else entirely, a voice that haunts that space between waking and dreaming, and his heart’s too big and it’s stuck in his throat and he can’t quite breathe.

“Hello, stranger.”

As simple as that, they exert their gravity on one another once more.

So she did come back. And what’s more, she’s extended an olive branch - invited him back into her life, when she easily could have ducked aside and pretended she hadn’t seen him.

They’re walking side by side again, him trying not to noticeably marvel, both of them with hands stuffed awkwardly in their pockets, making small talk. He hates it, hates the requirements of social niceties, when inside he’s burning up with questions he knows he has no right to ask. But then… It’s been months, to be sure, but it all did happen. She alludes to it, haltingly:

“Mr Booth, my neighbor in Leamington, said he called you.”

“Yes,” he replies, and then, perhaps pushing their delicate dance further than he ought, adds, “A fall, the hospital said.”

“I slipped,” she asserts firmly. Perhaps for her own benefit, more than his, but it stings nonetheless. His half-warmed hope for honesty, that they would stop talking in circles and hints and leaning on idle small talk, vanishes. So he pastes a smile on his face and follows her back to safety, back to pretending they hadn’t really seen each other, hadn’t shared… well, what they had.

The smile on her face, and the bubbly persona she’s put on, it all feels forced, and he worries, even if he has no right. Even knowing that Joan has decided to keep him at a distance, he can’t help trying; exposing the nerve, as it were. So he brings himself to ask:

“Are you alright? Really alright?”

There’s a moment, brief and bright, that he allows himself to hope. Joan veers into dangerously honest territory, and then—

She falters. It fades. She picks up her discarded mask of composure and reluctantly, he does the same. He shrugs awkwardly, with the weight of forced lightness, as she closes the discussion with a casual, “I’ll see you around.”

But as she turns to go, she tosses a jab over her shoulder about knowing where he buys his lipstick, he feels a flicker of optimism all the same. Perhaps she’s left the door open, just the slightest crack, after all.

**

That’s it, Joan decides. Oxford is killing her slowly.

Up till now, she’d managed, almost, to put it all out of her mind. To pretend every step wasn’t dragging her under, down into the tunnel of a past she wants desperately to escape. She can do this, she tells herself. It’s worth it, to see Mum’s smile again, if nothing else. And Dad… surely he’ll forgive her in time. She’s still his little girl, right? He’s stubborn, but he has to let it go, eventually. They’ll all find a new normal, and she’ll have her parents back and the fresh start she needs. A new job, a new flat, new friends…

Then she runs into Morse, and all that denial comes to a screeching halt. One glimpse of russet curls and a forehead furrowed in a thoughtful frown, and it all comes rushing back.

Somehow Morse became synonymous with home for her, but the parts she could accept, without so much of the baggage. Safety, belonging, trust. When she made up her mind to leave Ray, Morse is the one she felt safe coming to. Not that she thought it out in so many words; her feet more or less just carried her there, to his flat, damn the consequences. And consequences there would be, when Ray saw she’d really gone, but…

It wasn’t like she’d had a plan, not really. Morse had looked so pleased to see her standing there outside his flat, before he understood. Confused, surprised, but happy. So different from the last time they’d seen each other. For a moment, she let her mind fixate on that brief spark, just a breath between them, as he’d murmured, “It can turn out how you want it to…”

Then he’d glimpsed her black eye, and she saw the flash of fury in his eyes. That fire, that she’d been so quick to put out, claiming she’d provoked Ray - she couldn’t ever let him know how bad things had really been. Besides, in a way, she’d earned it, hadn’t she? Every choice that led her to that point, she’d made herself. “I’ve made such a mess. I don’t know what to do…”

And then - of all things! - Morse went and _proposed_ , that ridiculous, baffling, extraordinary man. There was a part of her, of course, that was tempted to say yes, to accept the offer of a way out if nothing else. Those big, sorrowful blue eyes nearly undid her resolve. He’s always so earnest, and she’d known it was genuine affection, at least. But it would be selfish beyond what she can bear. Much as she wanted him to be, Morse couldn’t be her absolution.

So she made her excuses, and he’d turned away, pacing as she sniffled and they’d both carefully pulled back on their masks. He’d mentioned something about a job offer in London - she wonders now what ever happened with that. Perhaps it was meant as an offer to start over together, to run away again but this time with him. A chance at a life where she wouldn’t have to return to everything she’d fled here, or the wreck she’d left in her wake. Doesn’t matter, really; she didn’t and couldn’t take it anyway.

Hopeless. She returned to the Leamington flat that had never and could never be home, ostensibly to pack up her things. If she were honest with herself, she’d rather lost her nerve, and had Ray been in an appeasing mood, she might have stayed. But no, he’d treated the sting of her rejection by marinating in alcohol and fury.

The hospital, after. She doesn’t remember much about how she ended up there. Sharp, bitter words, an ultimatum, a slap and a fist to her stomach - a tumble down the stairs, that much is true, at least - then darkness, a hand on her shoulder, followed by so many lights.

The doctor’s words, meant to be kind, yet delivering another wound all the same. “You can try again in a few months.” She turned her head against her pillow, blinking back tears. She’d never asked for this child, but now that it was dead, she missed it all the same. The idea of motherhood has always seemed to be more appealing than the reality, but this wasn’t in the abstract, or just any baby. It was her baby, and it was gone now, and her arms had never felt so achingly empty.

“Your husband came by earlier,” one of the nurses had said to her later. “Looked devastated, he did.” Distantly, as though through a fog, Joan remembered the brushing sensation of lips against her forehead.

Another added disapprovingly, “Ran out of here right quick though, didn’t he? I know it’s not my place to say, but I’d have my husband’s hide if he left me alone in hospital like that.”

Joan had just enough energy to summon a small, sad smile, as she thought of the last words she said to him. “He’s a police officer. World to save, and all that.”

 _Save a world for me._ What she’d wanted to say, maybe: _Save me._ Or, really: _Save us._ But that would have been impossible - selfish, and irresponsible, and all manner of impractical. Wouldn’t it?

Maybe she and Morse are tied together now, their lives irrevocably entwined: the power of a shared secret.

**

Twice a week, Joan visits with her mother. She may not be able to bring herself to come home entirely, but that doesn’t mean she’s abandoned her family. Mum seems to understand that; Dad… well, he’ll come around. For now, it’s just the two of them perched side by side on the sofa, ostensibly watching one of Mum’s favorite programs. They do better with this indirect interaction, for the most part, although sometimes their conversations veer closer to the real.

Forcing a casual tone, Joan offers, “Saw Morse today.”

Her mother doesn’t turn away from the telly, but Joan sees the way her eyebrows creep toward her hairline. “Oh?”

“Yeah, caught him searching for the perfect shade of lipstick.” She approximates a laugh; it’s so much harder to pretend around Mum. They were always so close, before. “Something to do with a case, I’m sure. Although one never really knows.”

“And how is he, then? Did you get to catch up?”

“A bit, not much. He seems…” Joan searches for the right words and helplessly settles on, “fine, I guess.” Morse is most certainly not fine, but she doesn’t know how to put into words the same loneliness she feels echoing in her own chest when she listens too closely.

Win purses her lips slightly, but returns her attention to the screen, with an inane comment about the program. Joan moves her foot back and forth in an infinity pattern, feeling itchy and impatient. It’s been nearly two months since she came back; why is her mother still so tentative with her?

“You can speak your mind, you know,” she blurts. “I’m not going to break, or run away again just because you say something I don’t like.”

Win frowns and finally looks directly at her daughter. “It’s just… I always thought there was something between you two, before. With you off on your own now, I didn’t know if your paths would cross or not, but Oxford is rather small.”

Joan bites her lip. It was that apparent, then, from the outside, the way they tended to revolve around each other? She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised. Her mum has always been able to read her, and Morse, despite his inscrutable tendencies, can’t hide the emotions from his face even when he tries.

Except. That, she thinks, is what’s been bothering her, what’s different - he’s harder to read now than she remembered. Like he’s hidden that pesky, obtrusive honesty deeper within himself. Maybe they both have changed. For the better, she wonders? But that isn’t the kind of question that’s worth asking, is it?

“There might have been, once,” Joan sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Did you want there to be?”

Joan glances toward the clock; Dad will be home soon. Her cue to head back to the place that isn’t quite home yet. “Probably. Yes. Maybe. Never made up my mind, I suppose, but it doesn’t matter now.” She picks up the book on the end table, the one Win raved about earlier. “Do you mind if I borrow this?”

Her mother fixes her with that soft-sad smile she’s seen aimed at her father when he comes home worse for the wear after a challenging case, or Sam when he’s lost a match he was excited about, or herself when she’d brought home news of a bad grade or a breakup. Still, her mother follows her cue and takes the hint to change the topic. “Of course, love, but only if you tell me what you think of the ending. And give me a ring when you’ve finished the tenth chapter; you’ll know why when you get there.”

 _You'll know why when you get there._ She certainly hopes so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of the first act! Luckily, the second was in many ways the easiest to write (and the fewest chapters, which probably helped), so we may be able to keep up with the frequent posting schedule for a little while longer. However, my writing is currently caught up/slightly ahead of my rewatch, so I may slow down just a little to savor the finer details and incorporate some into the fic. More good news, the third act (where we finally get into some self-indulgent fluff!) has at last started to cooperate with me, too! In good/bad news (well - good as a reader, I hope; a tad frustrating, though fun, as a writer), the third act just keeps multiplying far beyond what I anticipated. This fic is already double what I expected, but then, who am I to argue with a chatty muse?


	5. Chapter 5

There’s a half a moment, at Joan’s flat warming, when Morse almost allows himself to think… But no, another near miss. The sting when, after her insistence on him leaving comfort and following her, Joan offers to pair him off with some friend of hers… He shutters off, pretends he isn’t wounded, because it’s the closest way to graceful that he knows to handle rejection. He turns to go, and at her protest, supplies a limp, “Yeah… work.”

It’s true, in a sense. “Work” has become a sort of shorthand for all the oft-rehearsed reasons he cannot have her. And it’s the excuse he trots out at every turn when honesty would do more harm than good.

Reeling and dazzled, feeling the keen sense of loneliness that only comes with a crowd, all it takes is a vaguely flirtatious smile to turn his head, and he’s lost. It’s not until later that he learns her name and her story, discovers that quite without meaning to, he’s made Joan’s machinations come to pass by his own efforts. Well, maybe there’s something in that, though he really doesn’t care to look too closely.

**

Oxford is small - not provincial, by any means, but the sort of place one runs into acquaintances and neighbors at every turn. It used to drive Joan and Sam batty, as children, tugging on Mum’s sleeve to try to drag her away from a long chat in the canned goods aisle at Richardson’s. When she first returned from Leamington, Joan had tried to plan her shopping trips for odd hours, to minimize the chances she’d run into someone she knew. She dreaded the chitchat, the catching up; she had no better answer to give for a simple “how are you” than for the more daring “haven’t seen you around, where’ve you been?” Now that she’s been back awhile longer, and Oxford has started to feel more like home again, the idea of running into people while she’s out is less threatening, but she still feels on edge running errands somehow, a feeling akin to being caught up to mischief.

Today, she’s perusing the shelves of makeup at the chemist when she hears the dreaded words, alight with recognition: “Ah, Joan!”

However, the speaker isn’t any threat. Joan recognizes the woman instantly, both from her path crossing with Dad’s over the years and, more recently, from one or two more eventful days at the advice center.

“Ms Frazil, hello!”

It feels uncomfortable to address her formally, especially after the other woman has used her Christian name - it makes her feel like a child, in fact, as though the only reason they know each other is through Joan’s father. It brings up the old bitterness Joan has been trying to chase away, but it bubbles up only a moment before Ms Frazil responds casually, “Dorothea,” and they’re on equal footing again. Dorothea nods to the eyeshadow in Joan’s hand and compliments the shade; Joan acknowledges with a small smile. She’s been agonizing over the teal or sky blue for at least ten minutes, and maybe it’s silly, but the stamp of approval from a reasonably fashionable woman a few years her senior instills a sense of pride.

However, Dorothea’s next words inspire a wince from Joan. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask after your friend Claudine; how is she?”

J _oan supposes she shouldn’t be surprised to see Morse here, drowning his sorrows over a pint, the day his girlfriend has flitted off, abandoned him to travel the world. Or rather - to pursue her dream career, she self-corrects. Funny, that’s not like her; this new and improved Joan doesn’t typically disparage another woman for her ambitions, or define her solely in terms of how she fits in relation to a man. But then, her friendship with Claudine was a rather shallow one, and she feels defensive of Morse, left behind without warning. And maybe, perhaps, a tad envious… of Claudine’s freedom to explore whatever path she wishes, that is. Not of anything else, she reassures herself firmly._

Outwardly, Joan feigns a cool, unaffected air and replies, “Funny you should ask. She just left for Vietnam recently. Covering the war, I suppose. Did you…?”

Dorothea waves a hand impatiently, in the sense of someone searching for an answer when they’re not altogether invested in giving one: a woman with too much on her mind to speak at once. “Oh, I had interviewed her for a job at the paper a while back, before she decided to go off and pursue a grand adventure in - Vietnam, was it? I’m afraid I may have inspired that in part, telling her stories of my days in Korea.”

Joan’s eyes widen in surprise. “I had no idea. What was it…”

“What was it like?” Dorothea shakes her head with a humorless laugh. “People ask, but they don’t really want to know.” Joan bites her lip, feeling chastised, until Dorothea shoots her a conspiratorial smile and adds, “Let us hope your friend is more cut out for that life than I was. War is hell; there’s no getting around that. Oxford has its share of troubles, but I’ll plumb the darkest depths of home in a heartbeat.

“Besides,” she goes on, in a lighter tone, “here I have the endless joy of haranguing your father and the rest of the Thames Valley contingent. Speaking of, I hear Claudine was going with Morse for a bit, is that right?”

Inwardly, Joan sighs again. There really is no escaping the subject today.

 _Seeing Morse sitting there, head hung over his glass in defeat, shoulders hunched, grief written plainly on his face - easy enough to read, even from across the room… Well, it’s not just pity that Joan feels. There’s a sense of responsibility, too; after all, she’s the one who pushed the two of them together, isn’t she? Or tried to, anyway. Perhaps it ought to lighten her guilt that they found each other anyway, even without her direct meddling. Still, setting them up wasn’t an altogether altruistic move on her part; it was at least a little selfish, if she’s being honest (which the alcohol makes it hard not to be, even ignoring the fact that she only had two drinks and she’s probably mostly sober by now). A halfhearted attempt to remove temptation, as it were. Fat lot of good that did her. Claudine always told her too much, in the time they were together. It made Joan’s heart ache, and there were times it was all she could do not to scream at her friend to_ just shut up, please don’t _\- times she had to bite her lip against the curl of desire in her stomach (Claudine’s very French sense of propriety meant details Joan’s all-too-eager mind’s eye could certainly have done without), or the plain and simple jealousy of hearing the sweet, small gestures she can scarcely imagine coming from sour, snappy Morse._

_(Except she can, of course, all too well. This is, after all, the man who once proposed to her when she showed up on his doorstep, scared and friendless and utterly shattered. A frivolous picnic or a meander down the river can scarcely hold a candle to that, she thinks with some smug satisfaction - before the guilt sets in.)_

“Oh, yes, I introduced them. Well, in a manner of speaking.”

“Did you now? I have to say, I was a tad surprised. Claudine such a free spirit, and our Morse…”

“A bit square?”

Dorothea bites off a laugh. “That too. I was going to say…” She pauses, and sort of tilts her head, as though she’s assessing Joan in some manner that goes beyond the strictly visible. “Well. I just always thought his heart was rather in a different place, that’s all.”

At that, Joan’s heart thumps once, twice, making its own presence known rather more forcefully than necessary.

_But for all the gossip, Claudine never told her anything about the things that mattered, and Joan found herself worrying about Morse often. She certainly didn’t go through the events at the bank alone; and that’s not to mention whatever horrors he’s seen since. She’s only a faint clue about what exactly happened to Morse and her father to earn them their George Medals, and Morse his new rank, but what little she’s gathered certainly doesn’t paint an altogether wholesome, cheerful picture. The two of them share more scars than perhaps either can admit. Yet Morse seemed so happy with Claudine, she certainly couldn’t interfere. The glimpses she caught of his life in that period, he looked sunny and carefree in a way she’s rarely witnessed in him over the years she’s known him._

_And then he got his heart broken, because Morse is nothing if not earnest, and Claudine never knew how to be serious about anything a day in her life. Not, at least, about this sort of thing: people, men, hearts. Love. It’s serious business, no matter what careful barriers one tries to circumscribe around it. And so, perhaps against her better judgment, Joan reaches out, tries to smooth over those jagged wounds. Perhaps her motive is one of guilt, for her part in prodding him toward the hurt that’s pulling him under now. If nothing else, for what he did for her back then. Morse saw Joan at her darkest; the least she can do is meet him in his mess._

_She knows, before the invitation is out of her mouth, that he’s going to reject her. Whether out of propriety or self-preservation or sheer stubbornness, he can’t accept. She knows that, and yet the impulse to try is irresistible, and she asks him up for coffee anyway…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favorite chapters to write, and certainly one of the easiest! Dorothea Frazil's voice probably comes to me more easily than anyone else's (and yes, she does show up again later - I wasn't sure if she would or not, and I was delighted when the muse gifted me a lovely scene with her to work on this past week). This fic continues to spiral far beyond what I intended - I think we're up to somewhere around 18 chapters now? Granted, my chapters tend to be on the shorter side - but the good news is, Joan and Morse are finally starting to cooperate with the hard-earned fluff that was giving me so much trouble previously. I promise it's coming soon! The next chapter just needs a final dusting off before posting - I was hoping to finish my S6 rewatch first, but I'm just wrapping up S5 this weekend, and I may be a little too impatient to hold off much longer! That's the last bit really set firmly in canon, and then we flit off into the lush, uncharted land of canon divergence, when the slow burn should finally pay off. Anyway, thank you for reading, and for the lovely comments - it makes me so happy to know this story is connecting with people, that this endeavor (ha) I'm having so much fun with is coming to life all over again on other screens besides my own.


	6. Chapter 6

Looking at her, Morse thinks, is like looking through a kaleidoscope. All broken pieces and jagged edges, so much color and beauty. A lovely picture emerging from the chaos. But sifting through all those little pieces, making sense of them, it takes effort - and unlike assembling a jigsaw puzzle, he’s no idea what the overall image is meant to be.

**

Morse loves her. Of course she knows that. How could she not, after everything? _“You mean the world…”_ She’d known then, and she’d walked away anyway. She _had_ to. She’d thought, somewhere along the line, that his feelings had changed; she knows now that they’re still very much present. But it doesn’t matter. Morse loves her because he can’t help it. And that is no longer enough for Joan; she wants to be chosen. She wants someone to leap forward with eyes wide open, to say, “I see you, and I like what I see.” 

She can’t live up to this ideal of herself, the memorialized, scrapbook version of Joan Thursday that must exist by now in Morse’s mind. She can’t keep waiting for him to catch up, doesn’t want to keep playing this game. And so she turned down the invite he extended, that second chance at coffee-that-was-never-really-coffee, and has been reminding herself ever since that she made the right decision.

Still, it hurts. Perhaps it’s just the mourning of a possibility she held dear for so long. _When I’m over you,_ Joan thinks, _really and truly over you… will I stop looking so intently for the good in you? There’s so much to find, really._ There’s something about being in love with someone that makes it so easy to discern and fixate on all those little things that make you fall head over heels. Even with… everything, she doesn’t want to lose that piece of her heart that’s always reaching out for him.

Of course there were things she glossed over, when she had feelings for Morse; attraction is a powerful amnesiac. His inconsistency, for starters. His addiction to his work. His unhealthy dependence on alcohol for escape from his overactive brain. 

But there are things she can’t stand to lose noticing, too. Morse’s gentleness. The way his smile quirks up at one corner and creases his cheek when she’s surprised him with a joke. How he tugs on an earlobe when he’s sorting through a puzzle, or nervous. That charming smirk when he’s being rebellious. Even his sometimes maddening insistence on outdated standards of chivalry, because dammit, it may be the 1960s, yet there are times a woman wants to be treated as a princess! 

Endlessly, Joan rebuilds. She has her own life now, one she’s proud of. And if it feels a little empty at times, especially in those lonely pre-dawn hours when the world hasn’t quite been formed again to meet the new day…Well. That’s simply one more ghost she must ignore, if she wants to have any hope of moving forward.

It doesn’t mean she has to like it, though.

**

It’s not like Morse hasn’t ever thought about kids before - he certainly has. Nor is it that he doesn’t want children. It’s more that the idea has never seemed particularly possible before. Perhaps, in the abstract at least, it seemed like a viable option when he was dating Monica, and considering putting in his papers and starting over. But the life he’s made for himself now has no room for children. Work, always work - to an obsessive degree, he can admit that, and there’s always the excuse of putting a family in danger. 

Thursday has made it work, of course. The job, and family: never “or,” rather a fiercely defended “and.” But then again, at what cost? 

And that just brings Morse back uncomfortably close to the subject of Joan all over again, and the ways she’s changed; and how much of that - the shape of her trauma, and the growing she’s done besides - can be traced back to her father’s work, in one way or another? The bank heist, so formative an ordeal…He can’t do that to her, or a child, paint a target on their backs like that. It’s why he left Monica, isn’t it? How could he be back to entertaining these thoughts again? 

These are the excuses he recites to himself, but of course there’s a deeper darkness simmering beneath the surface. Although he refuses to lift the lid to peek, there are times it bubbles up in dreams, when he can’t defend himself with distractions or alcohol or carefully constructed cognitive pathways. There is perhaps no future Morse dreads more than becoming his father, and there’s a small, scared part of him that’s already resigned itself to that fate. Awake, he doesn’t let himself think it, but his subconscious isn’t nearly so considerate. He has a recurring nightmare, a snippet mercilessly gifted to him by hallucinogens at the hands of a lovesick pop star groupie, where his face shifts into that of sneering Cyril Morse, colors bleeding and disdain seeping from every hazy, imagined pore. In spite of the endless rehearsals, the twisted refrain long memorized, it’s still enough to launch him to wakefulness in a cold sweat, before he forces it all back into a mental locked box again.

And yet. There must be some part of his resolve on this matter that’s weakening. More and more lately, Morse has found himself smiling at babies in line at the supermarket, returning friendly waves from toddlers on the train, picking up casual conversation with boys whizzing by on bicycles. He dutifully ignores the pang that goes through his heart when he sees women resting a hand on rounded bellies. 

Against his better judgment, he finds himself captivated by a woman he questions for a case, a single mother with a five-year-old kiddie. He adamantly convinces himself he’s not devastated when she turns out to be the culprit they’re looking for. He suspects his interest in her was as much to do with how much she adores her son as her individual charm.

In the aftermath, halfway down a bottle, he can’t help but flash back to white hospital walls, assumptions made: _“You can try again.”_ He can’t… he _can’t_ allow his mind to wander there. Quite against his will, it does anyway. Joan in a hospital bed, looking smaller and frailer than he could ever believe possible from the most vivacious woman he's ever known. Wan, bruised, eyes closed, utterly broken. A tender kiss pressed to her forehead, the unspoken revelation of something he can never express aloud.

And what if? What if she’d accepted his proposal, and safe from her abuser’s fists, she’d never lost the baby? Morse has never doubted that he could have raised, and cherished, another man’s child. Half Joan, how could he not have loved it? As for the other half… there’s got to be something said for nurture, hasn’t there? 

Maybe it unlocked something in him, that fleeting moment when he was someone’s husband, an almost father. Maybe there’s no going back from that. 

He tries, and fails, not to imagine Joan as a mother. He tries, and fails, to ignore what that does to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly introspection in this one. I'm fond of it, I must say, BUT, some good news for those looking for a little more actual Morse-and-Joan interaction: the next chapter is where our slow burn actually lurches forward! As for how far forward, well, I'll have to leave that to Chapter 7 to tell, hmm? ;) It's also a bit of a longer chapter - not very, I think you've probably noticed by now that mine tend to be on the shorter side in general, but still. As for what that means (if anything) well... again, best leave that for next time!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha, we're finally here! Nudging these two together at last. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 
> 
> Also! This chapter was a great place to play with my ADHD Morse headcanon! I mean, it's made an appearance here and there already, and certainly continues to show up throughout the fic, but yeah, definitely apparent here. Me, who still has not unpacked some boxes nearly two years in at my current apartment, projecting? Maaayyyybeeee...
> 
> Thank you, sincerely, for all the encouragement and kind comments! It makes this so much more rewarding to write, knowing that there are readers out there enjoying it. Fanfiction is of course a labor of love - you do the thing because it's the story you want to read, the one that's keeping you up at night bouncing around your brain until you give in and put it on the page - but still, it's a community affair too, and I have truly never written for a fandom as vocal and kind and involved as this one. So many people have been so welcoming, despite me being so new, and I really appreciate it!

Not every day working for CID means a wild race against the clock to catch a murderer or track down a kidnapping victim. It’s been long weeks of relative quiet, and Morse feels as though he might go mad. Not - he’s hasty to add when he’s sharing his complaint with an eyebrow-raised Strange at the pub one night - that he’s inviting new untold criminal horrors into the world, but would an intriguing cold case be too much to ask for?

(“Matey,” Strange had said, with a beleaguered sigh and a shake of the head, “you need a proper hobby. One outside your head, I mean, not just crossword puzzles and music and more thinking.”)

Alas, no such luck. Which means, unfortunately, he’s run out of excuses to further procrastinate on organizing and decorating the new house. “New” is perhaps a bit of a stretch at this point; he’s put up with the chaos and clutter for months now, reluctant as he’s been to put in the effort to tame it. However, it rather defeats the purpose of putting down roots in a more permanent living space if it’s scarcely habitable enough to invite anyone in to see it. To Burridge’s it is, then, for… well, whatever supplies it is that a new and dreadfully inexperienced homeowner might need.

Which is where Joan bumps into Morse that afternoon, rather literally. Her head in the clouds, mentally rehearsing legal precedent relevant to a nasty custody case she’s been embroiled in for the past week, she doesn’t even notice there’s anyone in her vicinity until she nearly collides with a stationary body. She only just manages to turn in time so only her elbow catches on his shopping trolley. “Oh,” she gasps, “I’m so sorry, I should have been watching where I… _Morse_?”

Morse blinks at her with large, owlishly surprised eyes, looking somehow simultaneously startled and deeply unperturbed. He has that way of seeming always like things only ever affect him on the surface, too busy observing everything from a distance to really experience his surroundings with any depth. It is a bit gratifying, then, to hear the hitch in his voice as he says, “Miss Thursday!” and then, as if finally realizing what’s happened, “Are you all right?”

She laughs. “As I was going to say, should have been watching where I was going! A bit distracted; work’s gotten the better part of all my waking thoughts lately, I’m afraid. Not that that’s unfamiliar for you, I’m sure. What about you - no lasting damage from my clumsiness, I hope?”

She’s granted a warm smile, one of those beautiful ones she’s well and truly missed - she’s pleased to see he’s shaved that awful mustache; he looks closer to his actual age again. “My trolley may never be the same again, I’m afraid,” he jokes, and the relief that floods through Joan is palpable. Things were tense between them for a while there, and she worried they may never get back to this, the easy banter and casual friendship she’d missed. Perhaps it’s too soon to draw such conclusions, just a few words into one spontaneous conversation; but really, it’s been long enough, hasn’t it? Water under the bridge, and all that. They have to be able to start again somehow. 

At last, Joan catches sight of the contents of said trolley: two lampshades, some buckets of paint, assorted hammers and screwdrivers… “Ah, Dad mentioned you’d moved! A man of property at last?”

Ever modest, Morse shrugs. “It’s not much, really. I should have gotten more of the fixing up finished with by now, but…” He shrugs again. “Work. Or that’s been the usual excuse, anyway.” He nods to the pile she’s carrying. “What about you, then? Anything special bring you here?”

Joan blushes slightly; the stack of clothes in her arms towers much higher than she’d planned. She certainly didn’t need a new miniskirt, and just one blouse probably would have done; two pairs of shoes is extravagant. “Got a raise at work recently, in recognition of all the new responsibilities I’ve been taking on. I may have gone slightly overboard in celebrating.”

Morse flashes her another bright grin. He seems genuinely happy today; it suits him, Joan thinks privately, though it’s almost like an outfit not quite the right size. The lines around his eyes are more accustomed to the pinch of worry. It’s a wonder he hasn’t gone grey yet, but no, his hair is still that same coppery shade that catches and reflects the light just so. And those eyes, still so brilliantly blue. Why didn’t they give it another go, the last time the door was opened? Is there really too much history between them to bridge, or… She’s almost too caught up in her observations and memories to hear him congratulate her. “Well deserved, I’m sure. Still at the Welfare, right? We haven’t crossed paths lately.”

Joan shakes herself out of her thoughts. She’s not a schoolgirl with a crush anymore. Besides, work is one of her favorite subjects, now. It feels, at long last, like she’s found her place in the world. “Yeah, I am. It’s probably good news, not crossing over with your lot. It’s challenging work, to be sure, and there are days…” She takes a breath, and without even quite consciously deciding to, speaks truthfully. “It breaks your heart sometimes, you know. The things you see, the stories you hear… Some nights, I can’t even sleep. But it’s important work, and it keeps me busy. I like it, in spite of everything. Maybe because of it. Feels like I’m putting everything in me into it. Making sense out of pain, maybe, and putting my brain to good use besides. And my boss, she’s been good to me. A mentor, and she advocates for me when I need it. Hoping I’ll take over for her eventually, I expect.”

She puts her hand over her mouth, surprised at how much she’s said. There’s something about Morse that brings out an earnest side to her that she hasn’t let show much lately. There’s nothing wrong in it, of course, it’s just… different.

Morse is staring intently at her, but he doesn’t say anything for a beat longer than strictly normal. He’s always been like this, though, more comfortable in silence than anyone she’s ever known. She gets the prickly - yet not altogether unpleasant - sense that he’s peeling back the layers of her to see something realer underneath. 

“I’m glad,” he says at last. “That you’ve found something meaningful.”

It’s a far cry from their first conversation on the subject, that first interaction she had with him after taking the position. Then, she could have cheerfully strangled him, the way he was acting, like it was some personal affront that she couldn’t discuss an active case with him. Like her choices were about him, somehow. Today, however, there’s a sort of easy grace to the way they orbit one another, instead of that heavy pull. Maybe it’s the distance they needed, or maybe they’ve both finally started settling into their situations in life enough not to lash out at reminders of who they once were. Whatever the reason, she’s grateful for it.

 _And you?_ she wants to ask. _Have you found something meaningful?_ But she wouldn’t have been asking about work, and they’d both know it. Still, there’s that driving impulse to seek connection, to pursue this truce as far as it will go. So instead, she does something that surprises them both.

“Would you… I mean, could you use help with putting the house together? If I know you,” she lets out a little laugh, breathier than intended, and is rewarded with yet another small smile, “then you’ve probably put off doing anything but the bare necessities so far.” With a nod to the paint cans, she adds, “I know my way around a brush and roller. My roommates have changed their minds on what color we should do the living room every six months, I think.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Morse quips, and Joan wholeheartedly agrees.

“Oh yes. I’ve excused myself from the next project, in fact. Green will simply have to do, unless they want to do all the work themselves. But really, I don’t mind helping. Besides, I could use the break from their nattering. Not that I dislike them or anything, but they’ve been fighting over something or other all week…”

There’s an interminable silence as Morse considers her offer. He shifts from one foot to the other, and Joan fidgets with the collar of the hot pink blouse she picked out earlier. Finally, Morse says, “You’re hardly dressed for painting.”

It sounds like a clear excuse. Fighting down disappointment, Joan swallows and says, “Oh. Well, I…”

“Then again,” Morse continues, “I might have an old jacket lying around that you could put on over, if that’s enough?”

Another beat, while Joan processes this turn of events. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I think that should work.”

“Do you…” Morse gestures to the pile of clothes Joan is carrying.

“Oh, right! Did you already pay? I can meet you out front, if…?”

She tries not to think too hard about what this could mean. Keep it simple, she tells herself. A fresh coat of paint, and a fresh start.

**

“I must warn you, it’s… Well, you’ve seen my general living state before; I suppose you’re prepared enough,” Morse says wryly, as he inserts the key in the lock. They barely spoke the whole way here. For two people whose lives have been as entangled as theirs, the words really ought to come easier. Whatever eloquence Morse possesses rather inconveniently deserts him at times like these.

 _And what times are those?_ he challenges himself. Can’t get ahead of himself yet; he’s bound to trip over his own expectations. But really, it’s just… _people_. Relationships, of any kind. He has no knack for finding the right words in those contexts. No small mercy that Joan, at least, has been blessed with a gift to chatter on with anyone about anything. It seems, however, that she used up most of her words at the department store earlier.

He tries not to stare, watching Joan take in her surroundings. He wonders what she makes of the house. He wants her to like it, of course. Not just because it's her, but because this is _his_ space, something he’s worked so hard for. 

“It looks a disaster,” she pronounces, and his heart sinks. It’s true, of course: a fine film of plaster dust has settled over everything, and there are still half-unpacked boxes strewn everywhere. He’s made a halfhearted attempt here and there, but it really has felt like entirely too large of an endeavour - _ha_ \- to undertake alone, so he’s only made so much progress. Besides, up till now, trying to see the place through Joan’s eyes, he really hasn’t noticed the chaos strewn about; he acclimates to mess all too easily. 

He scuffs the toe of one shoe into the carpet and tries to keep his tone light, recognizing that she’s probably just teasing him. “You should have seen it before. I’ve at least painted over the worst of the graffiti, and the holes are patched up now.”

She looks to him with wide eyes, so he clarifies: “Squatters, drug addicts, mostly. What is it they say in the realty ads, ‘it’s got character’?”

Joan snorts. “Sounds about right. You’ve certainly got your work cut out for you.” She gestures to the mostly empty rooms and comments, “Looks like you’re still living in a bachelor pad.”

Morse lifts one hunched shoulder in a sort of half shrug. “I don’t need much space, really. I’m used to just one or two rooms. Every now and then I’ll sit in another to ponder over files for a change of scenery.”

She’s gotten a little ways ahead of him in her exploration, and he hovers a few steps behind, hands stuffed in his pockets to keep from visibly fidgeting. “You need one room work doesn’t touch,” she orders, and then pauses for just a moment to add, “Perhaps the bedroom?”

He nearly misses the sly, teasing smile she tosses at him over her shoulder, and it takes him a second to catch up. When he does, he blushes. 

As promised, he finds an old jacket for her to put on over her outfit, one that’s seen just a little too much abuse in the line of duty to be worn again. Morse’s standard of dress may not be especially high, but one does have to draw a line eventually. Joan raises an eyebrow at one or two of the more dramatic holes, but doesn’t ask, for which he’s grateful. There are some stories he prefers not to tell.

Mostly they work in comfortable silence. Joan seems to recognize that Morse is nearly out of words for the time being, and doesn’t push him, for which he’s grateful. She offers a nod of approval to his choice of color for his living room walls, and he’s a little surprised by how gratifying it is to have her casual endorsement of his tastes. Not that he’ll admit it, but he agonized over the decision, for no reason he can quite fathom. Too many options to choose from, perhaps. 

Anyway, it looks nice enough, even better - he laughs aloud - dotted in Joan’s hair and streaked across her nose. She returns his grin, and for a moment - with that strange unrealism of the afternoon sun slanting in through the curtains, dust motes floating around like bits of visible magic - his world narrows to just this, this small slice of utterly undeserved happiness.

While they’re taking a break later, Morse attempting to assemble cabinets and Joan organizing his flatware drawer, Morse asks, “What were you thinking about so intently earlier? You mentioned it was work, but I didn’t get a chance to ask properly.”

Joan straightens and looks at him from across the kitchen. “Because you were busy tending to your wounds, you mean?”

“Mercifully made it out unscathed. Can’t say the same for the trolley, alas.”

Was it ever this easy with them, before? Could it be, now? He’s afraid to look too closely, for fear the mirage will dissipate.

“Are you sure you actually want to hear about work? I do like talking about it, but it seems the only two options for the stories I tell about it are awfully dark or dreadfully boring.”

“Miss Thursday—”

“Joan,” she corrects, automatically, good-naturedly. Well, she’s been at him about it long enough, hasn’t she?

“Joan,” he amends, gratified by her answering smile, “you grew up with a copper, you know those are the only stories I can tell too.”

“Fair enough. Well, there’s only so much I can tell you, of course—”

“Of course,” he hurries to acknowledge.

“—it’s about this custody case I was embroiled in all week. Family is claiming she’s an unfit mother, and - well, I probably shouldn’t say much more, but I just don’t see it. It’s just… it’s sad, Morse. I know there are times it has to happen, but…when it’s just because the situation isn’t ideal…” She hesitates, and he can hear the slight tremble to her voice as she finishes, “A mother shouldn’t be separated from her child like that. It isn’t right.”

Morse glances sideways at her from across the kitchen. Probably without knowing it, Joan has brought her hand to rest over her stomach. He feels something in the vicinity of his lungs clench. They’ve never talked about it, the miscarriage. Morse has no idea if she’s ever said anything to anyone - Win, maybe? - or if it’s a secret only the two of them know. He rather suspects it’s the latter. 

“No,” he says quietly. “It isn’t right at all.”

Joan sniffs, once, and brings her hand up to rub at her nose. Then she continues, “I was trying to remember what I’ve learned about precedent in these cases; my manager has really been encouraging me to read more law history, where I can, of course. On top of the reading for night class - mostly it’s been about getting in my supervision hours now, though. It’s incredibly dense sometimes. I borrowed a book from the library, but my roommates have been bickering so loudly I can scarcely hear myself think, so I’ve only been able to absorb so much.”

Morse muses, “Reminds me of one of the first cases I worked with your dad. Same thing, a mother unfairly accused of being an unfit parent. Seizures, in her case. I’m sure I could find some of my notes somewhere…” An idea occurs to Morse. In today’s spirit of not examining a good thing too closely, before he can talk himself out of it, he blurts out, “You could study here, you know.”

Joan looks up at him, tilts her head. “What?”

Embarrassed now, Morse shuffles his feet a little, and twirls the screwdriver in his hand. “If you need space to think… Well, it’s quiet enough here, and it’s not as though I need all this room to myself. No feuding roommates to drive you batty. And I could help with some questions, if you’d like,” he adds shyly. “I can’t pretend to be an expert, not in the elements you need in your field, but I do have a few books of law lying around.”

Joan regards him wordlessly for a few beats, and he wonders, itchily, what she sees.

“I’d like that,” she replies finally, slowly, “but, Morse, I don’t want to get underfoot - I know you like your space, and time to yourself; I wouldn’t want to intrude…”

“You can keep helping a bit with setting up the house, then, if you feel guilty. I don’t mind either way, really.”

“I’d like that,” Joan says quietly, then, with more confidence, “You and this place do need looking after. Gracious, Morse, we’ll make this house habitable yet!”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends, we have reached a momentous occasion: this chapter contains the scene that convinced me to actually commit and write this fic! (I mean, it'll be pretty obvious which one I'm talking about.) I am beyond delighted that despite the many alterations this fic has undergone over time, this piece was able to remain.

Amazing, when you get down to it, how quickly something can become your new normal. Perhaps to their mutual surprise, Joan takes Morse up on his offer, and takes to swinging by the house one or two evenings each week. Mostly they keep to themselves, reading or puzzling through notes on their respective cases, acknowledging each other with a nod or gentle smile from across the room. Sometimes they work on things together; there’s a limit to how much work they can really discuss, but Joan especially likes to condense a case down to the vaguest terms possible and think out loud. Morse is impressed by the questions she asks, and after the third or fourth time, when it’s clear this is becoming a routine for the two of them, he stops by the library and brings home a stack of books on family law. Joan’s gasp of delight when she walks in and sees them on the table warms him to his toes.

It’s not all work, of course. Sometimes they tackle tasks around the house; Joan has a great eye for decorating, a small mercy for Morse, whose idea of interior design is primarily keeping one or two clear footpaths in the mess so he doesn’t trip stumbling to bed in the dark. (Old habits die hard; he’s attempting not to drink so much, at least, but he still works long hours, and generally refuses to turn on the lights when he comes home so late. What’s the point, if he won’t be awake any longer than it takes to find his bed?) Once the painting and wallpapering is out of the way, Joan helps with finding the best places to hang the mirror and few pictures Morse owns, and she rearranges his meager furniture in each room twice before deciding she’s satisfied. “My roommates and I change everything up now and then, to stave off boredom,” she tells Morse, and he tries to imagine a life where change is something to seek and home is anything more than merely a living space. Though maybe, he’s getting a hint of that now.

And sometimes they simply spend time together, no real goal at all. They’ll sit and talk, or listen to music without saying much at all - Joan brings over some of her favorite records, some of which Morse appreciates more than others, and he tries to pick operas and orchestras with the broadest appeal to share. Neither is much to Joan’s taste, but she does ask him questions about story or lyrics sometimes. She draws a connection between Tosca and a novel she’s been reading lately, and Morse listens to her retell the story, enraptured more by her enthusiasm than the convoluted plotline. Which Joan catches on to, of course, and fires back a barb about overwrought opera plots, and as his mock outrage elicits giggles from Joan, he very nearly forgets himself and kisses the laugh from her lips. 

_Not yet,_ he reminds himself; and perhaps that “yet” should surprise him, but it feels true, and he’s dizzy with the possibility of it. Even if this is as far as it ever goes, it’s a beautiful thing they have. It’s a light and happy peace, and not one he ever thought would be in his grasp.

**

Having a space to go where she can just _be_ has been a godsend for Joan. She loves her roommates, truly she does, but the other two are much closer to each other than either is to her, and she’s gotten tired of being the most distant point on the triangle. It’s meant getting her choices outvoted too many times, not to mention the fantastic rows the other girls get into after a too-late night out or a breakup or whatever other drama Joan is only tangentially a part of. It came on a little suddenly, but she feels so much older now - perhaps more in cynicism than wisdom. She’s seen so much, and at times feels like she’s been so many people, and she has little patience for things a younger Joan might once have tolerated or even found entertaining. Besides, she uses up so much of her energy and patience in a day on being kind and understanding to clients, or - much more trying - not shouting at self-righteous lawyers, especially that _bastard_ Richard Wilkins…

Well. Suffice to say, Morse’s house is a welcome escape. And Morse himself, a surprising source of gentle peace for a man whose mind and body never cease whirring.

Tonight’s activity is organizing Morse’s bookshelf. This is one of the last boxes to unpack, and Joan feels almost as much victory as though it were her own house. With most things, Morse has had no problem leaving Joan to her own devices, but it turns out records and books are two things he’s quite particular about ordering. After the fourth time he’s asked her to move something down a shelf or over a space to the right, she huffs, puts down the armful of books she’s been carrying, and grumbles, “Alright, then, you can do it.”

He frowns. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright,” she sighs. She’s not mad, not really. “I just can’t read your mind, Morse. Why don’t we swap places, and I’ll bring in the last of the boxes?”

Obediently, he takes a step toward her and the shelf, and raises his hands in an apologetic gesture of surrender. “Joanie—”

Joan scoffs. “You’ve been spending too much time with Jim Strange. Or my parents. ‘Joanie,’ like I’m eight years old again.” She starts walking toward the corner where the remaining boxes have been quarantined. If she weren’t around, she’s fairly certain Morse would have forgotten them entirely. “I can't decide which I loathe more, from you at least: Joanie, or Miss Thursday.”

She's teasing, mostly, but his face falls and he looks deadly serious. Par for the course, really, from both of them. “Did you really hate it that much?”

Morse is always so earnest, especially when she’s least expecting it. She glances away. “It's not all bad, I suppose. I know you meant well. It just... well, it just felt like it was more about my dad, you know? Like you were striving to be proper and respectful, because all you saw was him every time you looked at me. You never saw _me_.”

It's so quiet, she could swear she hears his heart stutter.

“I can assure you,” he says softly, “I see you, Joan.” A pause. “I've seen you for a long time. Maybe not at first, I’ll grant you, but...”

It's not the first time she's heard him say it, yet her name in his mouth sends a subtle thrill down her spine. 

( _Say it again,_ she thinks. Joan's never felt strongly about her name one way or the other, except in the past few years, it's become this challenge, with him: _See me. Acknowledge me. I am somebody, apart and whole._ She could listen to that one word, coming from him, for hours.)

To break the tension, she laughs lightly. “Well, hardly seems fair, does it? You've got all these names to choose from for me, and here I've just got Morse.”

(And she does have him, she knows. Has known, for a little while now. But relishing that thought will have to wait for later.)

“I don't—” he starts.

“I know, I know. You don't care for your Christian name. So I've been informed.”

A moment's hesitation, then: “Endeavour.”

She blinks, but before she has a chance to formulate a reply, he rushes on:

“My mother was a Quaker. Virtue names, you know. And it was the one thing they could agree on, with my father's interest in explorers. James Cook's vessel. I don't think—” He inhales sharply. “I don't think they agreed on much else.”

His parents divorced when he was young, she knows that. Her mother mentioned in passing once, probably in the context of trying to convince Dad to invite the lad to come ‘round for some feeding up. Something about his loneliness and longing for a family, though phrased more delicately than that, of course.

She tries it out, carefully, recognizing that he’s trusted her with this piece of his past. “Endeavour.”

His lips quirk up at one corner. “It doesn't sound so bad, actually, coming from you.”

“No?” Daringly, she takes a step closer.

He seems determined to ignore her proximity. “The first time your father called me that, I almost told him he'd need to find another bagman.”

The way his mouth moves in that smirk, it’s really alarmingly unfair. And the fading light shadows his cheekbones in the most utterly distracting way.

“You know,” Joan teases lightly, “I'd really rather we didn't talk about my dad right now.”

“Really? And why’s that?”

Mind made up, she closes that final gap, bumps him with her hip, and stares up at him through dark lashes. “Rather dampens the mood when I've a mind to do this.” And she kisses him.

He’s startled at first, but settles into the experience quickly. He lets out a sigh against her lips, and she hums contentedly against his. They’ve been dancing around this for ages, and for all the awkwardness and umbrage over the years, it feels now as though they’ve finally put things right.

He smooths a hand over her hair before stepping back. She misses him immediately, though it sounds foolish just to hear herself think it. “Joan…”

It sounds like the start of an apology, and she’s not having any of that. “Don’t you dare try to play the gentleman now, Endeavour Morse.”

He ducks his head, with that tucked-in smile that she fell for in the very beginning. He’s blushing, as he tends to do, but this time it curls her toes, knowing the effect she can have on him so easily. Distractedly, she starts considering all the ways she might try to elicit varying shades of pink. “I was just going to say, that was… nice.”

“Nice?” she scoffs. “I should hope for a better review than ‘nice!’”

He looks up at her, alarm flashing through his eyes, before he sees the twinkle in hers. “Well,” he says carefully. “We could certainly try again, to see if I can come up with a more fitting adjective.”

Joan grins, and hiccups out a breathy, wildly happy laugh as he circles his arms around her waist and draws her body back to his.


	9. Chapter 9

Now that he has permission to be, Morse turns out to be incredibly affectionate. Not just in the physical sense, either - in fact, at times he’s still quite shy on that front - but in terms of gestures, little reminders of how he feels about her. Joan supposes she shouldn’t be surprised; she heard enough stories from Claudine, after all, and she remembers that soft, faraway look in his eye from years ago with Monica. It’s something entirely different when it’s directed at her, however, especially coming from the man who could scarcely make eye contact with her for the first few years they knew each other. 

It starts small enough, initially. The next time she comes over after that first kiss, there’s a simple vase sitting on his kitchen table, her favorite place to sprawl out with her books and notes. Daffodils, that symbol of a long-awaited thaw - how fitting. She was so afraid, when she walked in the following evening, that the clock would have turned back and everything would go back to how it was. Which - she’d determinedly tried to convince herself - wouldn’t be all bad; they’d finally gotten properly to friends, at least, and she could stay content with that. On the other hand, that had been one _hell_ of a kiss, and she’d really rather that not be a one-time experience. How do you go back to orbiting each other after finally colliding? When she sees the flowers, she knows he was serious about staying the course - and the furtive glances he sends her way to assess her reaction tells her he, too, worried the change wouldn’t stick. Internally, she sighs in relief. Aloud, she acknowledges the statement he made by enthusing, “You remembered - ‘we’re all the flowers sort’! They’re lovely, Morse, thank you.” 

Before the shiny newness has even worn off, the first major hurdle to address, of course, is simple busyness. Neither of them has the luxury of a standard nine-to-five - Joan’s is closer, of course, but when one works with vulnerable populations, emergencies are par for the course. And needless to say, Morse is constantly beholden to the whims and needs of the nick. There are times that one or the other gets called out in the middle of a fraught conversation that has to go unresolved, or can’t find a phone right away to announce they’ll be late. It’s a not-infrequent source of tension in those early days, and realistically might always be to some degree, but after the fourth or fifth instance, they reach some sort of mutual understanding: their passion about their respective vocations is inherent to who they are as people, and if they can’t find a way to balance that with whatever this is, it isn’t going to work. Morse would go mad without a puzzle to solve, a world to save, and a deeper meaning to funnel all his powers of observation into; Joan, in her contributions at the Welfare, at last found a much-needed outlet for her need to protect and defend, not to mention a measure of confidence and independence. Still, balance is not a concept that comes naturally to either of them, and it seems like a never-ending learning curve.

They continue to spend plenty of time simply together at home, but Morse isn’t half bad at planning dates, either. It’s not as though he hasn’t had some practice by now, Joan supposes. There’s the usual, of course: a night out at the movies, a nice dinner out, drinks at the pub if their paths can only cross for an hour or so. There’s the time he takes her out dancing, and they both nearly fall over: Morse because staying upright on two feet is too much to ask if he’s also expected to look vaguely like he’s moving in time to the music, and Joan because she laughs so hard at his efforts to look dignified doing so.

The bookstore might be her favorite, wandering the shelves hand in hand, listening contentedly to Morse's opinions on various poets and trading him scathing reviews of trashy novels. Not that she doesn't love trashy novels, but she has _standards_ , and there's no hatred more fulfilling than that of a poor representation of a favorite thing. He tells her to pick out a book, any book she likes, and she tries not to agonize over the choice too much and walks out with a new mystery hugged happily to her chest. If she weren’t head over heels already, she certainly is after he rings the following afternoon to ask what she thinks so far, and requests to borrow the book when she’s done. When she objects that it’s hardly fair to bring his detective skills to a crime novel, he at first scoffs that it ought to pass the test. Then, quieter, he adds that the point is to understand what she enjoys about it, and the awkward, apologetic earnestness in his voice nearly melts her heart. It’s not the sort of thing one’s supposed to just _say_ , only hint at, but Morse has never been good at subtlety. 

**

He’s afraid, at first, of coming on too strong. Morse has always been the wholehearted sort; he’s not sure he knows how to do something only halfway. Joan must catch on, though, because she says to him, over dinner one night, “I’m not her, you know. Claudine. I’m not going to disappear.”

He tries to give her a grateful smile, though it must come out as a grimace, as he’s still lost in thought. He appreciates the sentiment, of course, but it’s not Claudine he’s thinking of, when he fears heartbreak. It’s been long enough; that sting has faded. No, even years later, it’s still Susan he’s intermittently shattered over. That ever nagging sense of not being enough, never measuring up. 

Perhaps Joan has a point, too. There’s always that worry of swinging the pendulum too far in the other direction; maybe he was too much, with Claudine. Forever either too much or not enough. The only relationship he’s had where he struck the balance was with Monica, and she… Well, he couldn’t really have both the job and a happy life with her; or at least, he thought he couldn’t, at the time. He left her to protect her, or that’s what he told himself, anyway; and whether that was the right call… It no longer matters, does it? 

Joan, on the other hand… Joan he doesn’t need to protect, not like that, anyway. Doesn’t need to shield her from the harsher realities of the world and his work. It’s something she knows too well already, from what she glimpsed of her father’s occupation, but also from her own work at the Welfare. They’ll both have their share of nightmares to hold each other through, he suspects.

They walk slowly on their way back; he’s still the sort of copper who sees young ladies safely home, and she still wishes the journey could take just a few minutes longer.

It’s a clear night; he stares up at the stars, tracing patterns that poet and scientist alike have cataloged for centuries. “I love you, you know,” he confesses quietly, honestly. It's as though the unavoidable truth has been wrenched out of him. “I know it’s early days yet, and I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t say, but I do.”

As soon as she opens her mouth to respond, he immediately waves a hand, and even in the dark, she can see he’s red with embarrassment. “You don’t need to return it yet; I know I’ve had longer, to think about…”

She laughs softly. “Morse, you impossible man. Of course I love you.” 

He looks at her then, blue eyes impossibly wide, and she feels an answering brilliant smile spread across her face. She reaches out to trace the top of his hand lightly with one finger. “Besides, if you’re going to make this some competition of who’s had longer to adjust to their feelings, or whatever, you know full well I’d win.” He makes a noise of protest, and she continues, “You didn’t catch on until, what, after the bank? Whereas I fancied you from the first time I opened the door to you. Slowpoke.”

“It’s not that I ‘didn’t catch on,’” Morse huffs. “It just… wasn’t an option, I suppose. You were the inspector’s daughter, I wasn’t supposed to notice you like that.”

“Right,” Joan snorts, “because you’ve always been so obedient.”

Morse rolls his eyes but otherwise ignores her to continue, “Then I was taken, and later…”

“Later, when I endlessly hovered and dropped umpteen hints, you mean? How many times does a bloke have to walk a girl home before he makes a move?”

“I couldn’t take my eyes off of you,” he admits. “But how was I to know whether you meant any of it, or it was just harmless flirting?”

“I think you should just admit that you lost the race, and were a dense idiot besides—”

“Oh, is this losing, then?” He tugs at her wrist to redirect them toward an oh-so-conveniently placed brick wall; she follows his lead and allows herself to be pulled flush against his chest. She’s entranced by feeling the slight rumble of his voice as he continues, “Because it doesn’t look like it to me.”

Her breath is already coming shallow by the time he tilts his head down and whispers nearly against her lips, “I think we both ended up exactly where we should be, don’t you?” He moves his lips to the space between her ear and her jaw, and the shiver that overtakes her has nothing at all to do with the chill of the night air. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! I'm actually decently pleased with how that turned out, after struggling somewhat with writer's block lately. I had to take some time this past week to sit down and actually plan out the structure of this latter third of the fic - which in actuality is closer to half; I think we have somewhere between 9 and 10 chapters to go. I should stop guessing, though; this was supposed to be an 8-10k fic, and we blew past that in the first couple weeks of writing it. I do think things might get a little slower for a while, between intermittent writer's block and some real life stuff getting in the way. However, this fic is still my baby, and I'm still having a lot of fun working on it, so I'll continue to do my best! I may go back and update the tags, too, now that I more or less know where this is going to end up.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with this story so far, and for all of the kind encouragement along the way! This fandom is incredible fun to write for, in so many regards. I hope you all are doing well!


	10. Chapter 10

It doesn’t last long, that early-days habit of holding each other at a remove. It can’t, really. With a history like theirs, it’s not as though they can go back to the beginning, pick up and pretend they don’t know each other. At the same time, they sort of jumped ahead a few paces, missing some of the important building blocks early on. So it becomes almost a game, this getting-to-know-you thing, sharing stories and trying to pick out bits of backstory they didn’t already know. He’s mesmerized by her, of course, and could listen to her go on for hours; it’s more difficult when she turns the tables and challenges him to open up. For her sake, he tries, though it’s slow going at the best of times.

She tells him about her favorite books her dad used to read to her, playing explorers with Sam, the best friend next door she lost touch with when they left the Smoke. He trades her half-remembered snatches of a lullaby his mother sang to him, and the time he got in trouble in school for losing his books. It starts out easy, low stakes, and slowly builds into something more.

 _“This is as close as I get.”_ He'd sounded a mix of wistful and afraid that night on the roof of her new flat, and Joan wouldn't learn until much later that it was not - well, not entirely - an expression of Morse's flair for the dramatic. Rather - or, in addition - it was an expression of his fear of heights, which he confides to her offhand one night while they’re curled up together under a blanket on his couch. 

(Morse insists on keeping his place approximately a single degree above freezing at all times, ostensibly to help him think, though Joan assumes it's more of a financial decision, with perhaps a pinch of punishment. Again, there's that flair for the dramatic.)

Tonight, he's telling her about the Mason Gull case, a crazed killer bent on being remembered at any cost, one of the early ones with her dad. He shares with her the memory of standing on the rooftop, feeling that distinct moment of soul shattering that's rare to recognize in the moment. Understanding dawns, and Joan sees him in a new light. It must have been a special kind of hell for Morse, seeing his usual safe haven - opera - twisted into an instrument of suffering.

“Your father, he saw me crumbling. I asked him how he could do it, leave work at the front door, coming home to you and Sam and your mum. He told me to find something worth defending…which was music, for me, always has been. So he said to me, ‘With every note you remember, that’s something that the darkness couldn’t take from you.’”

It’s much more honesty than she’s used to getting from Morse. She’s hesitant to push him too far, but she also recognizes an opening to understand him better. Gently, Joan probes, “Why music?”

He fidgets. Even with their growing closeness, Morse is a reserved sort, and this is treading on dangerously vulnerable ground for him. “When I was a teenager, after my mother died, I went to live with my dad and step-mother. Gwen was… erm… she never liked me, and made no secret of the fact. Nothing visibly cruel, but… well. And my father, he wasn’t exactly warm, either. I always knew he only tolerated me. I was an inconvenience at best, intruding on their family life. Only Joyce - my half sister - didn’t mind having me around. Small mercies, I guess.” 

Joan doesn’t remember Morse mentioning his sister up till now; she assumes they’re not close now, though she’s grateful to Joyce’s younger self for whatever kindness she showed a lost and lonely Morse.

“It got to the point that I thought… well, life didn’t seem worth it anymore. I just wanted out. But I was a stubborn sod, even then, and I found that opera served the dual purpose of giving me something to hold onto, some small light in the seemingly endless dark, and at the same time driving Gwen batty.”

He gives a humorless laugh. Joan wants desperately to find the words to tell him she loves him even more for this, that she wishes she could erase the pain of his past, though she’s glad for the compassion it’s instilled in him. But she can’t - really, it’s the sort of thing that can never quite be said - so instead she squeezes his hand a little tighter.

He looks toward her, but not quite at her, somewhere just over her ear. “What is it for you? When you have those cases at the Welfare that wring you dry, or when you remember...” He leaves the sentence dangling, and Joan inserts all the unsaid things between them: the bank robbery, her flat in Leamington, the miscarriage; and the dozens of things besides that only she knows. “What do you hold onto, that the darkness cannot take?”

“I think,” Joan says slowly, “for me, it's beauty. Not,” she clarifies hastily, feeling a little silly, “my own, exactly, or lipsticks and hair pins, though I suppose that's some of it - that choice, to put on a new frock and make my appearance match my conception of myself that day; it's part of the same, I think. But I mean the ability to see beauty in the world, to recognize it and create it and be a part of it... That's what I turn to, when it seems the world is going mad or I will.”

Morse is quiet, lost in thought. Processing, probably, encoding this new data and filing it away in a mental cabinet labeled “Joan.” (Or probably, she thinks wryly, still stubbornly labeled “Miss Thursday.”) His thumb is rubbing circles between her fingers, however, and she knows he's listening as he silently blinks those big, blue eyes.

"Is that why," he says at last, "you seemed to acquire an entirely new wardrobe when you started at the Welfare?" 

Now it's Joan's turn to blink, and choke on a surprised laugh. "Well, I suppose a mix of that, and newfound freedom and funds to spend. You know, reinventing myself and all that."

Morse nods thoughtfully. “You’d get along with Joyce, I think. We never had much in the way of disposable income - Dad had a way of dispersing it before we ever saw it, and what he did manage to bring home, Gwen clutched with a tight fist - but I still remember the look on her face after she managed to save up from minding the neighbor’s baby and probably a Christmas or two, and came home with a new hat. She was so proud, and excited to show me. Gwen tried to squash that out of her, of course, the enthusiasm, but… I always did my best to counter that.”

“The two of you against the world, was it?” Joan is utterly charmed by the image of Morse as the doting big brother.

“Mm, at times. What about you and Sam?”

“What about us?”

“Did you gang up against your parents?”

Joan laughs. “Oh, plenty. We fought too, of course, the bitterest of rivals, but when the chips were down, we always knew where our allegiance lay. Taking the other’s side in arguments with Dad, or joining forces to wheedle our way out of chores. When we got older, he helped me sneak back in once or twice if I was out late on a date.”

Mock scandalized, Morse exclaims, “Joan Thursday!” 

“Well, I’m sure Mum knew and just looked the other way, but especially if Dad was home, I needed Sam to run interference so I could change clothes to make the ‘out with friends’ excuse believable. I covered for him a time or two when he came home sloshed, so you know, secrets as currency and all that.”

Morse is quiet for a long, meaningful moment, and Joan sighs. “That’s not what we’re doing now, you know. You don’t owe me your secrets any more than I owe you mine. And I’m not beholden to you or some such nonsense just because you were present for parts of my life no one else knows. That’s part of our story, of course it is, but there’s more to it than that.”

“ _‘It is a terrible thing to be so open: it is as if my heart put on a face and walked into the world,’_ ” Morse muses, and Joan has known him long enough to know he’s reciting poetry. It vaguely rings a bell; she recalls a collection borrowed from a friend a few years back, maybe Sylvia Plath…?

“I chose this,” she pronounces, more fiercely than intended. It’s suddenly vitally important to her that he understands this. _On purpose, I chose you, and I meant it._ “You did too. You’re not my salvation, and I’m not yours; you’re just the person I want next to me while we stumble down the path and figure all this out together.” Maybe it’s a little more flowery than her usual, but then again, the man just quoted poetry at her.

Morse fixes her with a stare, and she’s drowning in blue for the interminable pause before he says simply, “Yes,” and an easy quiet falls. For a man so full of other people’s words, he seems to struggle often enough with finding his own. But that’s all right; Joan’s learning how to read his silences better all the time.

Almost absentmindedly, Joan starts carding her fingers through his hair, reveling in the silkiness of his curls. Morse leans in to her touch like a satisfied cat. Honestly, it wouldn't come as a surprise if he started purring.

Isn't that just the perfect metaphor, she thinks, smirking to herself. Connection on his own terms, yet surprisingly solicitous of affection when the mood strikes. Fixating on things no one else can see, and would swear there’s nothing there. Stubborn and gentle in equal measure. Endeavour Morse is a cat. 

**

Later that evening, on impulse, Joan checks her bookshelf and finds she does still have that volume of Plath poetry. She recalls Helen pushing it into her hands several months back, a well-meaning gesture probably meant to connect or broaden her horizons or some such, and she hadn’t wanted to disappoint by admitting she’d already read it. She flips through until she finds the piece Morse quoted earlier; a different section catches her eye, and her heart stutters.

_I am myself again. There are no loose ends._   
_I am bled white as wax, I have no attachments._   
_I am flat and virginal, which means nothing has happened,_   
_Nothing that cannot be erased…_

She shivers. It’s hard to imagine a version of herself who could read this and not feel something inside herself trying to shrink away from it, but the Joan who first read this years ago, thoughtlessly, after a friend’s raving review, was a different person altogether. Such a loss was fiction then, another kind of woman’s story.

Then, a few stanzas later, her heart squeezes for a different reason.

_I do not will him to be exceptional._   
_It is the exception that interests the devil._   
_It is the exception that climbs the sorrowful hill_   
_Or sits in the desert and hurts his mother's heart._   
_I will him to be common…_

She thinks of a forehead furrowed in thought, fingers pulling at an earlobe, the obsessive cadence of a pen clicking. A man drawn to mystery, and is he really the better for it? But he wouldn’t be him without the constant lure of an enigma to chase, and she can’t fault him for it.

Her eyes are drawn then to the penultimate stanza:

_I wait and ache. I think I have been healing._   
_…And so we are at home together, after hours._   
_It is only time that weighs upon our hands._   
_It is only time, and that is not material._

Something to aspire to, perhaps; if this is the picture of where she’s been, and her companion for the journey, then it only seems fair that this is where she hopes she’s landed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another very early scene, something scribbled out in the shower (that haven of inconveniently timed creative inspiration - thank goodness for waterproof notebooks!). The idea of sitting together and trading stories, going back to catch up on what they'd missed via a rather out-of-order love story - secrets willingly given, rather than confessed or witnessed in desperation - called to me. And I wanted to understand what Joan's equivalent to Morse's music would be, in the sense of something to cling to in the darker moments. It's clear that she's made her peace by trying to make the world a better (arguably more beautiful) place for other vulnerable people, and I love that about her. Anyway, I've read and reread this chapter so many times that I can no longer really "hear" it, so I'll have to just hope I did this half the justice that I meant to!
> 
> The poem Morse quotes, and Joan later rereads, is a radio play by Sylvia Plath, "Three Women." I highly recommend it, if you ever have the chance to read it (it is, in fact, the source of my Tumblr blog title, "Heroine of the Peripheral," which I'd completely forgotten until I came across this when looking for good poems to reference on secrets and vulnerability). I recognize that Plath probably doesn't quite fit with Morse's usual quotation sources, but a) the fit was too perfect to ignore, and b) while I haven't seen more than snippets of Inspector Morse, I understand that there's some controversy over teaching Plath in one episode, and I think it's fair to say Morse would be at least somewhat familiar. "Three Women" is a story about three mothers, one of whom is initially enthralled by pregnancy and then overwhelmed by the reality of it, one who miscarries and grieves, and one who didn't intend to get pregnant but falls in love with motherhood all the same. It's really beautiful, and that tender mix of haunting and hopeful that Sylvia Plath excels at, and there's a lot in there that I could easily connect to both Joan and Morse - the challenge, in fact, was selecting just a few lines!


	11. Chapter 11

With no small amount of trepidation, Morse was expecting a reckoning with Thursday over the matter. He tells himself the reason he hasn’t brought it up yet is it’s really Joan’s business to decide when her father finds out; of the two of them, she certainly has more claim to the need for peace and approval from the man. Certainly it doesn’t hurt that it’ll be a softer blow coming from a beloved daughter than a bagman trying to steal said daughter out from under his nose.

However, it turns out to be a much less daunting conversation than anticipated. After all, Fred’s been dutifully trying to rebuild bridges all around, between Win, Joan, and even Morse. Besides, Morse recalls, though there’s been history in between, there was a time the DI gave this turn of events his blessing.

Joan rings that night, and as soon as Morse picks up, she breathlessly barrels forth: “I meant to tell you this morning, only you’d already been called out - I told Dad about us. I was over helping Mum put a care package together for Sam last night, and he was in a good mood, and I thought, you know, now’s the time, better he find out sooner and not feel like we were keeping him in the dark somehow. He seemed to take it alright, but - did he say anything?”

Morse has to stifle a laugh; for someone ordinarily so self-possessed, Joan sounds like she’s worked herself into a dither. He doesn’t want to sound like he isn’t taking her seriously, though - after all, it’s him she’s worried about, which is a warming sort of thought - so he disguises his amusement as a cough. “You needn’t have worried on my account. He hasn’t threatened me with a shotgun or anything. Just said you’d mentioned something over… pie, was it?”

“Oh, yeah, Mum had some leftover apples, so we did some baking together. Hence the good mood, Dad loves her pie.”

“You’ll be pleased to know it got rave reviews even in retrospect.”

“Really, though, how did it go? I know he can be… well, protective, maybe overly so. He’s put the fright into a couple boyfriends in the past, though he has been making an effort to ‘respect my choices as an independent woman’ - I think Mum must have given him a talking-to at some point,” she says. Morse can both practically hear the air quotes and picture her holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder in order to free both hands to make them. He realizes that while he can picture Joan herself perfectly throughout their conversation, her surroundings are a blurry haze in his mind’s eye; they spend most of their time together either at his house or out and about, and he hasn’t been inside her flat since the moderately ill-fated flat warming party. He makes a mental note to find some excuse to spend time there with her, so he can imagine her everyday life with more accuracy.

“It really wasn’t bad. He just gave me the usual warning to treat you right, is all.”

_“Happy, is she?”_

_An image of Joan next to him at the pub a few days ago, with her head tipped back in laughter, hand on his arm, fills his mind. “I think so, sir.”_

_“Good. See that you keep her that way. She’s a special one, Morse. I know I’m biased, as her father, but…” Thursday draws a heavy hand over his face, a motion which Morse has learned to interpret as an unvoiced sigh. “Are you serious about her?”_

_Morse isn’t sure how to respond to that question. Not because he doesn’t know the honest answer, but because he isn’t sure whether it’s his place to give it. “All due respect, sir, I rather think that’s more of a conversation for you and Joan to have. Or her and I, really.”_

_“No, you’re right, I - well. I know you’re not one to yank a girl about, and heaven knows it took you both long enough to make up your minds on this. I’m not daft, I saw the way you looked at each other all those mornings in the front hall. Just, mind you tell her what to expect, is all. It’s not an easy life, attached to a copper - Win’s got the soul of a saint, to put up with it - and there’s enough burden you’ll have to bear together without adding mind-reading to the list.”_

“I’d say you got off easy! Maybe I should do a bit of the torturing, then, since Dad let you off with a light sentence.”

Morse tries very hard not to let his mind wander too far with that. He clears his throat and changes the subject, rather unsubtly. “I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d like to do something at your flat one of these days - not that I don’t enjoy having you ‘round mine, but it seems only fair. I probably should meet these devil roommates of yours, too.”

“Oh, the roommates! They’re really not that bad, you know. We’re just more different than we realized at first is all. You actually might like Pauline; she was at Lady Matilda’s. Helen’s a bit of a free spirit; I met her through Claudine, so you can imagine.” There’s a slight pause, and Morse wants to reassure Joan that she doesn’t need to feel guilty, his past girlfriends aren’t some sort of unutterable curse; but before he can, she rushes forward, “Could be fun, though. They have some art exhibit coming up on Friday, so they’ll be out for a few hours. We could do a nice meal at home, then maybe out for a walk down by the river, if the weather holds?”

Morse searches for a pen so he can scribble a note to himself; it takes several long seconds, and he’s about to give up when he spots one poking out of the sleeve of a shirt abandoned on the floor. No use wondering how that got there, probably. Joan hasn’t been over recently, and as a consequence, the place is a tip; he hasn’t managed to summon the motivation to tidy up without the urgency of trying to make a positive impression. Not that Joan doesn’t know the level of disorder he typically keeps, but he needs _something_ to inspire him to clean or he never will.

He realizes it’s been at least a minute of awkward silence now, and coughs pointedly. “Sorry, right. Friday it is.”

There’s a giggle from the other end of the line, then, “Were you looking for a pen? There should be one in the kitchen drawer still, unless you’ve moved it. I also seem to remember seeing one rolling around on your living room floor.” Well, that’s that question partially answered, at least.

**

Morse offers to cook for her, but remembering how many times she’s had to remind him that a cup of tea doesn’t count as a meal, Joan suggests he bring a bottle of wine and she’ll handle the meal. Cooking isn’t her favorite activity, and she’ll never measure up to her mother, but she’s not half bad. Besides, Morse’s kitchenware leaves much to be desired. Which is how they end up at her place this time, rather than at his. That’s alright, though; really she wanted to show him the fairy lights she’s strung up on the roof, and watch the sun set over the Oxford spires together. 

The kiss they share is soft, and sweet, and Joan’s pretty sure she’s going to explode from the romance of it all. It’s exactly what she wanted the first time she brought him up here, what she couldn’t allow herself at the time. _“It’s the view I fell in love with.”_ How often does one get the chance to rewrite the past?

Back downstairs, Joan dutifully stirs the pot and stifles fond laughter at Morse staring wide-eyed around her flat, as though her surroundings can somehow bare all the secrets of her soul. The shared living space doesn’t reflect her particularly well, she thinks, though she gave Morse a quick tour of her bedroom earlier, and that was certainly personal enough. She’d pretended that the flipping sensation in her stomach after a few minutes of simply standing there next to him, watching him study the room and studiously avoid looking at her, was in fact fear that her carefully prepared dish would burn for staying away too long. It had provided her a needed excuse to rush out of the room, hoping Morse would attribute any color in her cheeks to the stove’s heat, rather than any other kind. Anyway, she’s dying of curiosity to hear what he thinks, so she asks, “Alright, pick it apart like it’s a crime scene. What can you tell me about, well, me, from what you see?”

“It’s not nearly disorderly enough to be a crime scene,” Morse replies.

“ _Morse_.”

“No, really, that would be the first thing I’d put in my report. Very tidy and organized; either nothing suspicious, or _incredibly_ suspicious. Er… Well, it’s obvious more than one person lives here, and from the mismatched furniture and kitchen items, likely not people who’ve really built up a life together.” He scratches at the back of his neck, and Joan refrains from rolling her eyes at the bland statements so far; she suspects he’s gauging her reactions to see what he’s really supposed to notice. “Most of the shared spaces are fairly generic, so probably not a lot of time spent together, either. You don’t particularly get along with them, your roommates, do you?”

“Oh, they’re all right. I think I’ve become a bit boring to them ever since I started night classes, and you’re right, we don’t spend a lot of time together. But they’re nice enough, I suppose - just rather young sometimes. Well, maybe that’s more a reflection on me than them; I’m probably the one who’s changed.” She’s quiet for a moment, thinking how different she is today from who she was even when she first returned to Oxford. “The flat warming you came to? That was their idea, I’m one for smaller gatherings, really - but even things like that… I don’t know. I think I used to be _more_ , maybe.”

Morse makes prolonged eye contact with the space just above Joan’s left ear, then goes on as though he hadn’t heard. With a sigh, Joan goes to take the salad out of the refrigerator. 

“The bedroom tells a more complete story. No band posters or any of the frivolities a younger woman might choose, but plenty of photographs, mostly family, presumably. A number of hats and scarves and necklaces strewn about, not cluttered by any means, but not all put away: someone with an appreciation for adornment and an eye for the little things, and with her mind on more important matters than maintaining perfect order - probably in a hurry at the end of most days. Bed made, though: cares about appearances and good habits. Some ticket stubs taped to the mirror: particularly taken together with the photographs, a touch of sentimentality, someone who cares to remember. A stack of books piled on the nightstand, two novels - one from the library, one fairly worn and therefore possibly borrowed, one a textbook on child development and the other a history of social services in the United Kingdom…”

As she listens, Joan realizes Morse didn’t ignore her at all. He heard her message loud and clear, and he’s disputing it. No - that’s not quite right. Challenging her perception, maybe; he doesn’t disagree that she’s changed, that she’s grown up, maybe, but he’s reassuring her that she isn’t boring. All via the “crime scene” deductions game Joan started him on. It’s the most Morse-like approach to encouragement she’s ever seen.

The meal itself is a humble affair; Morse compliments her cooking the expected amount, and tells her about a particularly humorous drunk and disorderly he and Strange were called to last week. Joan reminds him that they have a dinner party coming up soon, hosted by one of her newer colleagues, Veronica, and her husband; Morse makes a face but doesn’t object, and much as Joan already likes Veronica, she secretly shares the sentiment. Hopefully it’ll be more tolerable with Morse at her side, though. 

Afterward, they do the washing up in companionable silence, settling wordlessly into an arrangement where Morse washes and Joan dries. She’s positive Morse has to be intentionally letting his fingers brush hers as he hands her the sopping dishes, and she catches them both increasingly lingering over the hand-off. Ridiculous - and yet… She bumps her shoulder against Morse’s, and he smirks and nudges her with his hip. She retaliates by whacking him with the towel, and he flicks soapy water at her. They’re both laughing by now, and then suddenly it’s back to silence, now weighted with a building _something_. It doesn’t feel like being bold, or even particularly like flirting. It feels, Joan muses, like telling the truth, somehow. Morse has to stop _looking_ at her like that, with those blue eyes so huge and intense and utterly focused on her and nothing else; there’s a delicious warmth uncurling somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach, and…

And naturally, the roommates choose that precisely inconvenient moment to return, interrupting _whatever that just was_ with their ever-present noise: loudly banging door and shrieking laughter. As they enter the kitchen, Joan thinks rather uncharitably that she could kick them. In concert, taking in the scene before them, they raise a simultaneous eyebrow - always so in sync, the pair of them - and Joan fights not to roll her eyes. 

“Ooh, is this the mysterious boyfriend?” Pauline asks, while Helen repeats the raised brow motion suggestively. 

“I should think that hardly needs an answer,” Joan bites off, trying to remind herself that murder is rather inadvisable with a police officer at her kitchen table. Perhaps she could settle for grievous bodily harm? No, surely that’s a crime too, even when one’s obnoxiously nosy roommates, with their _impeccable_ timing, really do deserve it…

Although. Policeman. Maybe she could put that status to good use. 

Morse quickly wipes the suds off his hands and shakes their hands briskly in turn. “Morse,” he introduces himself. “Lovely to meet you both, after all I’ve heard from Joan.” He doesn’t sound himself at all, except for the note of sugary sweet sarcasm Joan detects underneath that last bit. Really she ought to make more of an effort not to complain about them so much to Morse, they’re not that bad, although this particular moment in time is really trying her patience.

“ _Detective Sergeant_ Morse,” Joan adds, also syrupy sweet. Her brain is slow to restart, and while she means it as a sort of threat, she catches the meaningful glance Pauline gives to Helen, and belatedly realizes her mistake. So much for intimidating the roommates into letting up; no, she’s just earned herself at least a straight week’s worth of teasing over her taste for a man in uniform. She catches the suppressed snort coming from Morse, and knows he’s caught on as well. What a _fun_ twist to the evening this has been.

“Right, well, we were just about done here, so… help yourselves to the leftovers,” Joan offers, a bit desperately.

“Oh, really? Off to the cinema, are we?” Helen chirps, then lower (not low enough!), adds, “Nice and dark, isn’t it?”

Joan chooses not to dignify that with a response. “Won’t be back till late; don’t wait up. Come on, Morse.” She grabs his hand and tugs him toward the door. He grins at her, and she can’t decide whether she wants to slap the look off his face or kiss him senseless. Later, she decides - though which option remains to be seen.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sort of quick in-between chapter today. Life has been incredibly busy - I'm starting a new job in a couple weeks, and it turns out a major life change is not exactly any easier when one lives in Interesting Times - so between that and a stubbornly silent muse, I've been a bit stuck on the creative front lately. Thought getting this bit ready to share (rather than pushing for perfection that simply isn't coming) might nudge the muse into action... We shall see!

For as much as there’s an easy, quiet companionship to their relationship, Morse doubts he will ever be able to ignore the sheer, inexpressible _magic_ he feels, looking at Joan, holding her. Knowing she’s his, that she chose him. He relishes the joy of being allowed, encouraged, to notice her, see her, in a way he never allowed himself before. Of course he appreciates all the usual parts (and appreciate them he does), but also the small details: The stubborn set of her chin, the one he loves to grip gently yet firmly to tip up towards him. The sloping curve of the eyebrow she raises in wordless reprimand whenever he crosses a line. The corner of her mouth that quirks upward when he makes her laugh before she's quite ready to forgive him. Gentle hands that he's seen grasped tight around a scared child's many times, and all the bright colors she paints her fingernails. Blue, blue eyes that sparkle at every small joy - a category he still can't help but marvel at his inclusion in. 

Long, dark eyelashes and delicate eyelids that flutter when he does _this_...

He’s enchanted by her, wholly and utterly. For all that what’s between them has lost the uncertainty of newness, it could never become routine.

**

At the nick, Strange leans against the side of Morse’s desk, looming wordlessly until Morse finally looks up from the evidence photograph he’s been glaring at for the past half hour, attempting to intimidate the inanimate object into somehow making sense. With effort, he drags himself back to awareness of the outside world, and realizes, suddenly, as his fingers still, that he was tapping them aggressively against the edge of the desk, just a few inches from where Strange’s leg now rests.

Taking his newfound alertness as a cue, Strange begins pleasantly, “It’s been a while, fancy a pint tonight?”

“Oh, I can’t, not tonight.”

Strange gives him a knowing look. “Well, if you’re going to stay late, the least you could do is cover the paperwork for that overdose from last week. Hoped we’d see less of it, after everything with - well, after everything,” and Morse can hear how carefully he avoids saying _with George_ , “but that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

“Strange,” Morse says, tone dripping with the kind of heavy patience that makes it obvious he’s struggling not to roll his eyes, “I’m not doing your paperwork for you. That’s hardly a _hobby_. Besides, I’ve got plans tonight.”

“Oh? Back on the birds, then, are we? You have been looking a fair sight more put together lately, and suspiciously cheerful, I should have known…”

At this, Morse can’t resist the eyeroll any longer. He’s not sure if it’ll be a mercy or further fuel for the fire when, before Strange has a chance to really amp up, Thursday appears next to his desk with a file in hand. 

“You remember that stolen crucifix from Monday? Call came through from Dr DeBryn, he’s got a hit-and-run on the slab with bruising that looks suspiciously cross-like. Thought it sounded less like your garden-variety traffic accident and more like cause for CID involvement. You two able to head down this afternoon?”

“I haven’t got anything on, I can go now. Unless, Strange…?”

“No, no, that’s alright, now’s as good a time as any. You driving?”

Morse tips his head in silent acknowledgment, and reaches out to accept the proffered file from Thursday. He allows himself an exhale of relief as his governor starts to walk away, and then:

“Still on for tonight, yeah? Don’t get your head too wrapped up in this case yet, Win’ll have my guts if all that stew goes uneaten.”

Inwardly, Morse winces, as he can practically hear Strange’s curiosity whistling behind him. “Yeah, I’ll make it. Half six?”

The whole way over to the hospital, Strange is ominously silent, clearly trying to connect the dots. The brief reprieve ends as they march down the familiar, fluorescent-lit corridors, however. 

“All I’m saying is, you and the old man haven’t exactly been on the best of terms this last year, have you? And what, now you’re headed over there for tea? It’s all well and good if it’s finally water under the bridge with you two, but…”

He trails off as they enter the mortuary and find DeBryn already waiting for them amidst all the bright lights and gleaming silver. “Gentlemen. That was a tad earlier than I expected. This cross business is serious cause for alarm, then, I take it?”

“It is,” Strange jumps in before Morse can get a word in edgewise, “but more importantly, Morse here has to clock off early tonight. He has _plans_ , see.”

“It’s hardly _early_ ,” Morse mutters irritably. “I have been known to leave on time, on occasion.”

“A rather rare occasion, at that,” Max pronounces, attempting to make knowing eye contact over his glinting glasses. Morse, however, is stubbornly staring at some distant corner of the tiled floor. “And to what imperious clock are you beholden today, may I ask?”

A large part of Morse wants to respond with “You may not,” but he knows he would sound like a petulant child. Instead, he sighs and grudgingly admits, “Joan and I have dinner plans with the Thursdays.”

Out the corner of his eye, he sees Strange frown for the split second of piecing the puzzle together before understanding alights in his eyes. “Ah,” he breathes, “that… makes sense.”

Before he can explicate what, exactly, makes sense, though, Strange catches the knowing smirk on DeBryn’s face, and whirls on him. “You knew?” he demands.

Max purses his lips, clearly not intending to spill any secrets not his own, but his eyebrow has a life of its own, and raises anyway. Morse jumps in hastily before things get even more awkward. “I might have mentioned over a pint, not too long ago. It’s not as though I meant to keep it a secret, it hasn’t been that long, really, I just…”

Strange nods slowly, accepting. “You keep most things close to the chest, I know. Can hardly hold it against you. Really, though, Joan Thursday! What a catch.” He whistles, impressed, and Morse blushes furiously.

“Right, well, it’s not…”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s many more things than it’s not, eh, matey?”

Morse looks helplessly to Max for rescuing - there’s a dead body on a slab between them, after all, don’t they have more important matters to tend to? Something other than endlessly ribbing him about his personal life? - but he finds his friend in the middle of trying to transmute a laugh to a cough. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to note that I REALLY wanted to do a full "dinner with the Thursdays" scene, but I just could not get it to happen, so we'll just have to assume that happened offscreen. Also, I'm pretty sure my seasonal references are all over the place in this fic... I probably should have been a little more thorough in my planning, but setting doesn't tend to be my strong suit, so uh, here we are? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> The ending of this fic is being extremely uncooperative still (inconsiderate), but I've got a decent draft of all but the final two chapters and I'm pretty confident in where this is going by now, so I updated the total number.

For all their widening circle, as they become ever more immersed in each other’s lives, Morse’s house remains something of a “home base” for the two of them. Joan continues dropping by after work when she can, and the space begins to take on more of her personality than the living room in her own flat. Morse adds a few plants, rightly guessing that Joan would appreciate a spot of living greenery, and starts keeping a much better stocked kitchen, now that meals aren’t just something to fit in by necessity around late nights at the nick. For her part, Joan adds a few nicer pots and pans she picked up secondhand. She may not actually live there, but between their efforts and how often she's around, the space feels like _theirs_ more than just his _._

“You know, Morse,” Joan comments one evening, “we’ve done a lot of my kind of dates - not that I’m complaining, mind - but maybe we should switch things up this weekend. What do you want to do?”

Morse pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Oh. I don’t know, our tastes don’t always overlap, I…”

“Really,” Joan insists, “I want a better glimpse of your world. Maybe, I don’t know, an opera, or…?”

He snorts at that. “You can’t stand opera.” 

“Musically, it’s not to my taste, but I know that you love it, and that makes me want to understand it better. And you know I enjoy the overblown drama of it, at least the way you retell it.”

“Hmm. Maybe. Or…” He pauses. “One of my friends from the choral association mentioned a concert this weekend - a little bit of everything, I think, mixing pieces from multiple composers. It could be fun, if…”

Joan rises from the table, and hugs his shoulders from behind, planting a soft kiss to the back of his head before she picks up his plate to deposit it in the sink. “Sounds perfect. What time should I be ready?”

“I can pick you up at seven, if that’ll give you enough time…?”

“Depends what kind of fashion marathon I’ll be running. How fancy is the dress code? Oh, don’t tell me I’ll get to see you in a tux? Best not pick me up at home if that’s the case, or the roommates will try to steal you away from me!”

He grins at her. “Nothing quite so elevated as all that. It’s not even a particularly selective orchestra, I’m afraid, just a community group, though I’ve been told they’re good.”

“Ah, well, more’s the pity. I’d have enjoyed the tux, but another time, I’m sure. Will the red dress I wore for that Amnox fundraiser work? Or perhaps the blue, you know the one, from Veronica’s do.”

“Either should work, really. I’m hardly a fashion consultant.”

“Well, you know, I just want to be sure I don’t stand out! Besides—”

“You’d stand out no matter what you were wearing,” he says fondly, and she swats his arm.

“You’re such a sap. What I was trying to say is, this is _your_ date, so I want to let you choose.”

He looks startled, and a rather appealing flush starts across his cheeks. It’s mild enough, but between that and his lips slightly parted in his usual expression when caught off guard, she has to fight the urge to kiss him before she’s gotten her answer. She supposes it is a rather intimate thing, in a sense, though she meant it casually enough. Choosing outfits for each other - it’s the sort of thing married couples do, or at least, couples who’ve been together a lot longer than the months they have. It’s always felt like they skipped past the awkward beginning stage, though; after all, they had enough of that fumbling around, two steps forward and one back, in their first few years.

He clears his throat. “Well, in that case. The blue, I think - with your eyes. Unless you’ve got something new you want to show off.”

**

The concert is lovely, though Joan is rather more impressed than Morse is. There are a few pieces she quite likes, actually - classical isn’t usually her first choice, but she understands the appeal, and has a special fondness for the low, mourning cello. Mostly, the joy for her is watching Morse listen, his eyes closed to better appreciate the sound. Music is his peace, and she falls just a little more in love with him for it. For a man who’s so rarely still, it’s a wonder to see him so singularly focused. 

The weather is cooperating for a change, so they go for a walk down by the river after. The lights reflect off the water like a set of stars brought down close enough to touch.

They reach the usual crux of the evening, the crossroads where they could either turn back toward Joan’s flat or continue toward Morse’s. Without waiting for Morse to ask - or more accurately, squirm and sort of gesture questioningly - Joan continues down the lane that will take them to the place that’s more “home” than either of them expected.

It’s not the first time she’s stayed the night at his, though it’s not exactly a habit, either. The first time it happened, they’d simply lost track of time. Morse was absorbed in a particularly horrific case, practically buried in files, and Joan, stretched out on the floor with a very engaging novel, had dozed off. She woke sometime past midnight, and nearly rolled into a chair; the sound startled Morse out of his reverie, and he’d half panicked at the realization of the late hour. She’d waved off his concern, and when he got up to get their coats so he could walk her home, she rolled her eyes. “Morse, it’s officially the seventies. I think I can stay the night at my boyfriend’s without inspiring some kind of witch hunt.”

“Won’t your roommates think…”

“Damn the roommates,” she’d said cheerfully. “They can make whatever assumptions they’d like. Besides, I’m too tired to walk home. I can sleep here; your floor is remarkably comfortable.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you can have the bed.” Before she even had a chance to protest, he was helping her to stand and propelling her in the direction of the bedroom. She’d rather wished she wasn’t already half asleep. “I’m not likely to make much use of it tonight anyway.”

Joan tried to utter some sort of flirtation, but yawned instead. “Bad case?”

“Frightful. Would make for a rather awful bedtime story, so I’ll save the details for tomorrow.” Not that she ever got many, but unlike her father, Morse isn’t afraid that telling Joan about his work will somehow shatter her peace. It’s something she appreciates about him.

The second time, it had snowed so badly that even Morse, ever the gentleman, couldn’t bring himself to suggest she walk home in it, nor were the roads fit for driving. Neither of them had expected the late-season blizzard. Morse had offered Joan some pajama bottoms and an old shirt, since naturally she hadn’t come prepared, and even wrapped in two layers of blankets, her teeth kept chattering. Of course he’d insisted she take the bed again, and she’s sure he nearly caught his death freezing on the couch. Her toes still curl to recall the way he’d looked at her when she walked out of his bedroom the next morning, moderately rumpled and wearing his clothes: hungry, and not for the toast she prepared for them both. She’d avoided looking him in the eye, trying to pretend she hadn’t considered what it all looked like - because if she let herself, she wouldn’t be making it home that morning, either. And she did need to get changed before making her way into work, or Viv would never let her hear the end of it.

There hasn’t been a third, not till tonight. Joan tries to suppress a giggle, wondering if Morse is also thinking _third time’s the charm._

**

It’s been the most remarkable evening, one so perfect Morse feels he ought to check if he’s dreaming. He could pinch himself, but his subconscious isn’t usually so kind. From the time Joan answered the door, he’s scarcely been able to believe his good fortune. His heart leaped into his throat to see Joan in the promised royal blue dress, and he still hadn’t found his voice before she called over her shoulder, “We’ll be out late, don’t wait up!” He’s glad not to have to interact with her roommates; they’re harmless, really, and for all Joan’s complaining, the four of them get on all right, have met up for a round of drinks once or twice; but he’s not sure he’s up for much conversation at the moment. There was something about the sparkle in Joan’s eyes - that dress really does play up their color - that makes him weak at the knees. He’s known, of course, that this is something serious for both of them, but while of course he knows how he feels about Joan - is distracted with it half the day, sometimes - it’s some small miracle to be reminded that she’s equally enamored of him.

The concert itself is decent, nothing for the record books, but nice enough all the same. He kept catching Joan looking over at him with the oddest expression, and when he asked her afterward, all she would say is something about seeing him at peace. They meander down by the river, aimless in both their walking and conversation. There’s something endlessly satisfying about that, about not feeling like they need to pack as much as possible into limited time, the easy assumption that there will be many tomorrows. He’s almost giddy with it.

When they walk in the door, he offers to pour them both a drink, but Joan shakes her head. She simply stands in front of him, for a long moment, pinning him with a stare, and then wordlessly trails her fingers up his arms before cupping his face and leaning in for a gentle kiss. He inhales sharply when she draws back, but says nothing. She reaches her hands into his jacket and pushes it off his shoulders; she goes to hang it up next to hers, still wordlessly. He knows neither of them wants to challenge the silence.

He’s pretty sure he’s scarcely breathing when she returns and makes quick work of removing his shirt. For a long moment, she simply drinks him in; he relishes that for a beat, then he decides he’s had quite enough of being admired: he wants, no, needs, a turn. Her fingers loosely grasped in his own, he leads her down the hall to the bedroom, then shifts to move behind her and pretends his fingers aren’t shaking as he undoes the buttons at the back of the blue dress. In a mirror of Joan’s move earlier, he nudges the dress off her shoulder and presses a soft kiss to the newly bared skin. She lets out a soft sigh, and he feels himself shiver.

**

When Joan opens her eyes, the room is still dark. Not morning, then, not yet. Despite the warm evening earlier, it’s chilly now, and in her sleep, she’d sought body heat - she’s pressed up against Morse’s side. He’s sprawled out on his stomach, his hair sticking up every direction - whether from sleep or their activities earlier, she couldn’t say for sure, though she does fondly recall burying her fingers in tawny curls. Even in the low light, she can just make out the freckles dotting his back, and thinks to herself that she’d quite like the opportunity to map them all.

She can’t quite help reaching out to run one finger lightly up and down his ribs, which makes him jump - she hadn’t meant to wake him, but years of policework have probably made Morse the sort who doesn’t sleep heavily. He blinks at her owlishly, and then a slow smile spreads across his face. 

“Hello,” he says quietly, the truth of his heart written in his heavy-lidded eyes. His voice is a bit scratchy, certainly lower than usual, and it does things to Joan’s insides that she’d rather not admit.

“Hello, stranger,” she whispers. Partly standard tease, and partly hearkening back to a now-distant conversation when she first returned to Oxford. Who could have guessed, after all that, they’d end up here?

A yawn. “Sleep all right?”

“It’s not morning yet. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up yet. I should have let you sleep.”

“’S all right, I don’t mind.” He yawns again. “Plenty of time for that later. You’re here now, though, wouldn’t want to miss that.”

She lets out a sort of breathy snort at that. Joan has learned in the past few months that a sleepy Morse is an honest Morse. In fact… she really ought to take advantage. That’s the point of pillow talk, isn’t it?

She starts out light enough, though. “Did you ever think we’d get here? Well.” She colors, thinking of the many ways he could take that ambiguous statement, and catches his answering smirk. “That we’d actually manage to make this work. Us, together.”

“Hmm. I hoped, certainly. Seemed more possible at some times than others.” He attempts a motion that might be recognizable as a shrug if he weren’t lying down. “Seemed so many times like the closer we came, the further we swerved off course.”

“You’re terribly stubborn,” Joan agrees.

“Oh, _I’m_ stubborn?” 

“Alright, alright, _we_ are stubborn,” Joan huffs, fondly. They’re quiet for a long moment, then. Morse’s hand finds hers and squeezes, lightly, and she lets out a contented sigh. In the easy honesty of the dark, the next question slips out almost without conscious thought: “Why did you ask me to marry you?”

The quiet takes on a different shape then, perhaps a bit sharper. Morse raises himself up on one elbow. “Because I meant it,” he replies simply.

After a beat, Joan shakes her head. “You can’t have. It wasn’t… I was alone, and fragile, and I came to you and you felt responsible for me, somehow. Right? I needed a way out, and you…”

With a wry grin that borders on a grimace, Morse says, “I can assure you, for all the times your father has come to me needing my help, I’ve never offered marriage as a solution.”

Joan snorts at that, but can’t seem to find a better response.

“My turn?” Morse asks softly.

“I suppose it’s only fair,” Joan allows.

He brushes her tangled hair away from her face, leaving the edge of his hand lingering against her jaw. “Why didn’t you accept?”

Ah. “Well, I didn’t think you meant it, for one,” she answers. “Or at least, that you wouldn’t, come daylight, when you’d had time to think it over. Pity, or maybe some sort of guilt, seemed the most likely explanation. Some well-meaning heroic impulse, or like maybe you felt you owed it to Dad to make sure I was taken care of…”

“Was it really so impossible a hypothesis that I truly cared for you?” Morse wonders incredulously.

“You barely knew me! How could you have loved me?”

“Maybe not love, not yet,” he concedes. “But affection, certainly.” Attraction, too, she thinks, remembering the stolen glances she sometimes caught, back then, out of the corner of her eye. There have been worse foundations on which to build a marriage. Maybe, given time, they could have… But it didn’t matter, then; she had too many reasons to think it was impossible. And for all Morse might think differently, it wouldn’t have been as simple as it might have seemed to him then. 

“I was pregnant.” She states the reminder flatly, carefully devoid of any inflection. “I couldn’t ask that of you, Morse. Taking me on then, state I was in, would have been enough trouble, but to add another man’s child on top of all that… What everyone would say, about you, about us…”

“I would have loved the baby, too,” he avows. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t have been… difficult, but we would have found our way.” He reaches out and gently traces her cheek; when she leans into the touch, he continues to stroke the side of her face, and she feels her eyes start to flutter shut.

Despite her tiredness, her mind latches on to the warmth in his voice when he referenced the baby, and she wonders… But talk of children, or any long-term future, will have to wait; this has been enough for one night. “We’re here now,” she says instead, and when she looks at him, the way he looks at her, she feels a lightness in her chest that she could scarcely have imagined back then. It’s not long until a deep contentment lulls her back to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short little in-between sort of chapter. Despite its brevity, I hope you like it! We have a longer one up next, with a very full cast of characters, and then we get into the final act (yes, I finally split it off into four, rather than three), where all the chapters are rather more interconnected - as opposed to the one-off mini stories they mostly are now.

Whatever case Morse is embroiled in, it must be a nasty one. After three days in a row of rushed, apologetic phone calls, they finally gave up and canceled their fancy dinner plans altogether. It’s not as though that nice restaurant is going anywhere, and besides, Joan knows the last thing Morse needs after a bad case is the smothering sensation of being surrounded by people. It’ll keep, she thinks, wincing at how much she sounds like her father. Maybe later, when this is all done.

Morse shows up at her flat that night unannounced, the hour late but not abysmally so, sporting a split lip and a purpling bruise across his cheek, looking a mixture of spent and triumphant. Mystery solved, then, though she isn’t sure she wants to know at what cost. She ushers him in and tries to keep her worry in check; there’s only so much fussing Morse will stand. 

Helen’s out for the evening - a date, Joan thinks, though her usually gossipy roommate was cagey about her plans; Pauline is headed to bed, but starts at the sight of Morse at their kitchen table, pressing a bag of frozen peas to his face. “Are you alright?” she asks, a note of genuine worry in her voice, and Morse tries to smile at her, but with his split lip, it comes out more as a grimace, which doesn’t help to put anyone at ease. Joan assures Pauline all is fine and shoos her back toward her room; with a doubtful frown back at Morse, Pauline leaves them to it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Joan asks. Unlike her parents, she and Morse have no rule against speaking honestly about their work - as honestly as they’re permitted, at least - but she’s also learned some of the value to simple distraction over confession. She does her best to balance offering a listening ear when Morse wants one with being a refuge from darkness when that’s what he needs more. It’s not an easy thing to manage, and her respect for her mother’s steadiness has grown exponentially over the course of this relationship.

Morse lets out a heavy sigh. “I hate the sex cases. It’s like it sucks everything out of you, and it all gets put back in wrong after.” Joan understands what he means; it’s not any easier from her angle, and if you let it, that type of thing can destroy your last shred of faith in human decency. In the aftermath, sometimes for days or weeks, the entire world seems off-kilter, like you’re looking at it from a slant. She reaches out to lightly touch his hand, still waiting for a read on what he needs. 

He tries for a joke: “Next time, it’s Strange’s turn to tackle a fleeing suspect. I’m getting too old for this; I’ll destroy my knees at this rate.”

Joan rolls her eyes. “And yet Dad’s knees seem to have held out fine.”

“Well, yeah, that’s because he has constables and sergeants to do all his running for him now.”

The attempt at levity over, Morse seems to have run out of steam entirely. Joan’s not quite sure why he came here tonight instead of going straight home, though when she considers the alternative - accumulating more empty bottles to either trip over or kick into shadowed corners - she’s grateful. If she’s become a safe haven for Morse now, anywhere close to what he’s been for her, it’s a role she’ll fill gladly. 

When the peas have warmed past usefulness and been placed back in the freezer, Joan makes her way over to the sofa and waves for Morse to join her. “Come on, then, don’t stand on ceremony.” He looks a little uncertain, but settles next to her and follows her lead as she gently lays him down so his feet are draped over the armrest and his head is in her lap. 

“You should try to get some sleep,” Joan says. “I know you’re in for nightmares when you go home, so at least try for a bit of kip now.”

He looks like he’s about to object, so she starts running her fingers through his hair, and that calms him some. She’s sure she’ll never tire of that silky texture, the metallic gleam, the place where it starts to curl around his ears. She loves burying her hands in his hair when she kisses him, or tugging on it lightly to tease him and turn his attention entirely on her, but right now, it’s an entirely different temperature of love. He starts breathing more deeply - she hadn’t even noticed how shallow his breaths had been since he first got here - and eventually, he does drift off. It’s a fitful sleep, but Joan keeps up her ministrations, runs a gentle hand across his forehead, and his furrowed brow smooths slightly. Maybe it’s temporary, but a moment of peace in an formidable storm seems like the kindest gift to give.


	15. Chapter 15

When Morse shyly mentions the upcoming performance, it’s obvious he’s embarrassed and trying not too look too invested in Joan’s response to the invitation. He’d swung by Joan’s flat after work for a couple hours of drinks and cards, and it turns out he’s absolute rubbish at pinochle, to the point Joan threatened to switch partners, only neither roommate would take on a clearly hopeless Morse. “You’ve even got the bathtub going for you, and it’s still not enough to save you,” Pauline admonished, and Joan had to explain to a baffled Morse about the supposed luck of partners sitting across from each other in the same direction of the bathtub in the home. After losing several rounds in a row, the hour started to creep up on them, and Joan and Morse walked out together for a quick private goodbye before Morse headed home. And now he’s clearly trying to pretend he doesn’t care one way or the other if Joan is interested in coming to his next choir concert.

“It’s the Saturday after next, and I just thought… Well, I haven’t been able to keep up with practices as much as I should, but I have been trying to get back into it, and…” He rubs self-consciously at the back of his neck, gaze focused somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes. For all their various intimacies, Joan’s a bit mystified as to why this, of all things, is what he’s so uncertain about sharing with her. 

“Of course, I’d love to! That’s the sixteenth, then, right?”

The look he gives her in response is so openly appreciative and hopeful, she can’t help beaming back at him. He looks for all the world like a puppy praised for good behavior, or a child told his mother can attend his school play after all. “Yes, and Trewlove - you remember her, Shirley, used to be a WPC; I think you met a few times - is going to be in town visiting, so I think there’ll be a group of us going out to the pub after. We used to do quiz nights pretty often; still try, every now and then, with Strange and DeBryn and whichever unsuspecting constable they can talk into being their latest victim, but Trewlove was the cornerstone of the team, we’re really atrocious without her.”

Joan laughs. “Not enough trivia on poetry and the Greats, then, is there?”

“Some, but we’re hopeless at most anything on pop culture. Strange isn’t half bad for sport, and you could do worse than a pathologist for science, but anything on films or music and we’re mostly lost.”

“Well, perhaps in good news, we got in plenty of practice at being gracious losers tonight, right?” His cheeks are still an alluring shade of pink, and she brushes her lips across them before doling out a proper goodbye kiss. “As much as I’d love to stay and chat awhile longer, we’ve both got an early morning ahead of us.” It’s true; Morse is due to give testimony in court tomorrow, and Joan has been filling in for some of Viv’s duties while her boss is on holiday. It’s been a draining week for both of them, which makes this brief interlude of normalcy all the more appreciated. “Thank you for inviting me; I’m genuinely looking forward to it.”

**

The performance goes well enough, Morse thinks. Or rather, he really doesn’t think, not while he’s singing; that’s the point. It’s almost an out-of-body experience, every time. It’s certainly healthier, to that end, than alcohol, though certainly more effort. 

It feels like too much, all at once, sharing this side of his life with his colleagues. He wishes he invited just Joan, or even just Joan and a few of the others, rather than all of them together. A part of him is grateful that Thursday couldn’t come; having his governor involved in this part of his life is far too intimate. At least none of them embarrass him by waving or clapping too enthusiastically; he doesn’t miss when Strange goes to stand with his congratulatory clapping at the end, and Joan and Trewlove simultaneously yank him back down by his sleeves. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate their support, but it’s maybe revealed more of the truth of himself than he was ready to share.

The awkwardness dissipates as soon as they enter the pub, though. He and DeBryn and Shirley and Strange automatically gravitate to their usual table - it’s still the usual now, even with one of their members usually off in London - though with the addition of Ms Frazil and Joan, they have to push two tables together now, and borrow an extra couple chairs. They barely make it before the first trivia round starts, and another team of regulars needles that they shouldn’t be allowed, but DeBryn waves off their facetious kvetching by reminding them who bested their team in the most recent tie-breaker round.

The first question is on the Iliad, something Morse could recite in his sleep, and when Joan leans in to teasingly congratulate him, he grins, “It is Oxford, after all.”

The initial round is always a mixed bag, and they all find somewhere to shine. Max gracefully fields a query on biology that no one else in the place gets; Strange is one of the few who knows the rules to some obscure board game; Dorothea references world events like it’s her first language; after a heated debate, Joan and Shirley agree on the behind-the-scenes connection between two actors. They’re off to a good start, though so far they aren’t eclipsing any other team, and Morse knows they tend to fare worse as the night goes on. 

Between the first and second rounds, he takes advantage of the lull to catch up with Trewlove. She’s written a couple of letters since she joined Scotland Yard, but Morse has never been good at letters, and he’s so slow to respond that they’ve never really been able to keep up much of a conversation. She seems to enjoy the challenge of her new role, and in true Shirley fashion, she doesn’t hold back in sharing tales of her accomplishments, matter-of-fact, never one to see the point in false humility.

“Bright will be disappointed he missed you,” Morse observes, wondering if he should have invited the older man for the concert at least. It would have felt bizarre in the extreme, though, even worse than having Thursday there would have been, and he only would have put his superior in an uncomfortable position of having to invent some excuse or another. 

“Oh, no, I’m actually having lunch with him tomorrow. I think he’s been rather lonely since his wife passed, and he wants to catch up on life with the Yard. Make sure they’re treating me alright, I expect.” She’s quiet for a moment, then adds, “George’s family invited me to drop by, but… I don’t think I’m quite up to it. I told them I was quite busy and would let them know if the time opened up, but I think we all knew it was a no from the start.”

Morse finds he really doesn’t know what to say to that, so he settles on a neutral, “Ah, I see.” He knows Strange took care of telling Trewlove about what had happened to Fancy, sometime shortly after the showdown with Jago. He’s also keenly aware that being back in Oxford must mean a swill of complicated emotions for Trewlove, particularly when it comes to her connection to Fancy. It’s certainly not the kind of conversation he excels at, though, which she knows, and she gives him a sort of forgiving smile. Mercifully, he’s rescued from having to come up with _something_ by Strange tapping on his shoulder as he squeezes past to return to his spot. “Mind topping us off, matey?”

Without objection, Morse rises to get the next round of pints. As he waits, he leans against the bar, smiling fondly at the sight of Joan with her head tipped back in full-bodied laughter at whatever nonsense has just exited Strange's mouth. It's not late enough for the man to be nearly as drunk as he is. Morse hears a distinct pattern of clicking heels and feels the presence of another body settle in next to him, and even before she bumps his shoulder with hers, he knows it's Ms Frazil. It’s been enough times by now he’s heard her walk across sticky pub floors in his direction, and she has a particularly telltale gait, staccato in heels: a woman perpetually on a mission.

“Happy?” she murmurs.

“Yes,” he answers easily, and relishes the look of surprise his simple response engenders. "Expected to have to work harder than that?"

“And here I was prepared to play the game, have to suffer through a dozen clarifications to wheedle clues out of you by any means necessary. You're not making this very fun, you know,” she pouts.

“I'd've thought a more free-flowing exchange would be a pleasant change of pace. You are a reporter, after all; information is your trade.”

“I've learned to appreciate a hard-won secret. Can't ever sit back on one's laurels, or the job's a bust. No matter, this will have to do,” she sighs, then whacks him lightly on the arm. “Really, Morse, she seems good for you. You look...” She purses her lips.

“Demonstrably less rumpled? Not half a disaster, for once?”

“Cared for, I was going to say; but yes, if you'd prefer to put it more artistically. Certainly less morose and downtrodden. She must be feeding you; those cheekbones don't look so much like they could cut glass. Love's a good look for you.”

Reflexively, he smiles, though he ducks his head to partially hide it. Somehow he's still a bit shy talking about what he has with Joan, even to someone he's long considered a friend. “And what about you? Any movement on that front?”

“Ah, Morse,” Ms Frazil sighs, with a flick of the wrist, “I think that war's long past fighting. Let the young ones have their turn, hmm?”

At that, Morse scoffs, but he's interrupted in his protest by Trewlove frantically signaling him from across the room. In fairness, he has been gone for several minutes, and the next round of the quiz is probably due to start. He stifles a groan; there's always too many sports questions at this stage, a topic on which he's notoriously useless, and Strange is too many beers in tonight to be much help, either. If Thursday had stayed, maybe he could have gotten them a few points, but Mrs Thursday had been feeling poorly all week, so he'd only had time to stop by for one drink and then run off.

“It seems we're needed back at camp,” he says to Ms Frazil, who responds with an ambiguous noise of assent and follows him back to their table.

**

As expected, their team fares poorly in the following rounds, and despite their early head start, winds up near the bottom of the final roster. Their crowd slowly disperses as the night goes on: Dorothea ducks out not long after Thursday; Max makes his excuses to go feed his vacationing neighbor’s cat; Trewlove was determined to make a memorable evening of it, but eventually has to get some sleep so she doesn’t nod off into her plate at lunch tomorrow. Strange stays to the last, though he’s so far gone that it’s practically just Joan and Morse for conversation by the end. As they send Strange trundling back home, Morse is glad his friend lives so close; he remembers all too well some stumbling late nights when the two of them lived together. He’s also fiercely grateful he won’t face Strange’s hangover moaning tomorrow.

It's late when they leave, well past midnight: late enough that there's really no sense in walking Joan back to her flat (to risk the possibility of waking the roommates), so she follows him back to his. She's already blinking long and heavy by the time he shuts the front door behind them, so he goes to find some passable pajama option for her to borrow. He laughs softly when he returns to find her already sprawled out on his bed, still fully clothed, snoring lightly. Joan only snores when she drinks, he's learned, and thankfully not loudly - he may love her madly, but he's not a particularly deep sleeper, and he's certain such a sound could drive even the steadiest man to the brink.

For a long minute, he pauses to simply drink in the experience: a stunning woman - not just any woman, at that, _Joan Thursday_ \- asleep in his bed, soundly, like she hasn't a care in the world, like there's nowhere she feels safer than here with him. She didn't get a chance to remove her makeup - he's sure she'll be annoyed by that tomorrow - and the grey shadow on her lids is smudged, blending in with eyeliner blurred halfway out to the halo of dark hair that drapes every which way over the pillow. Her lips, long since mostly divested of the evening's peachy lipstick, are formed into the slightest smile. He wonders if she's dreaming yet; he doesn't see any telltale flickering under her eyelids, but if she is, it must be something pleasant.

She's only managed to kick off one shoe before succumbing to the sandman; he pulls off the other and moves them both to the side of the room so neither of them will trip if they get up in the middle of the night. He readies himself for bed as silently as possible, and gingerly climbs in next to her, pulling the blanket up around the two of them and awkwardly tucking it in around the arm she's flung out to the side. 

He's quickly lulled to sleep by an easy peace, and wakes only once during the night, to Joan adjusting her position so she's curled up against his back. One hand digs under his side, probably seeking warmth, and the brush of her fingertips against his stomach inspires the briefest hint of desire before she exhales heavily out her nose, still dead to the world, and he settles and allows sleep to pull him back under. His last thought, not quite conscious, is that if you asked him to define “home,” it would be something awfully similar to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I say this a lot, but this may have been my favorite chapter to write! I find it difficult to get ensemble interactions right, yet it was a fun challenge. This one was also very heavily influenced by my ADHD Morse headcanon (rejection sensitivity solidarity, babey!). To explain "the bathtub rule": when my grandparents taught my sister and me to play pinochle, they always referenced this thing where if you and your partner sat across from each other in the same direction as the bathtub in the house, supposedly it was good luck. At the time I started drafting this chapter, I assumed that was a well-known tradition, but after a Google search turned up nothing of the sort, I called my grandmother and she laughed and told me no, that was just a joke she had from being such a sore loser with so many of her friends! My family still has not stopped laughing that all these years, I thought that was a Real Thing other people did too!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine my surprise when my humble little domestic fluff fic decided to run off and sprout case fic ambitions. I was bamboozled, my friends. I'm not going to say I truly tackled anything so ambitious here, but there is a case, so... kind of? It's certainly the closest I've gotten to writing actual plot in, whew, years! These last couple chapters are all interconnected, and gave me quite a bit of trouble over the past few months, but I'm down to just final edits at this point. I hope you'll enjoy!

Their professional lives intersect every now and then, though hardly often. Neither of them is particularly comfortable with the experience when it does, though they’ve had enough practice to step carefully around each other’s boundaries. Really, the greatest complication is it makes it that much harder not to ask pointed questions when they see each other outside of work, but they do their best. Thankfully, it is a fairly infrequent occurrence.

Today, Joan finds herself berating the odds as she raises a hand to lift a heavy brass knocker, all too acutely feeling Morse’s presence as he scuffs his feet on the front step beside her. Morse is investigating a kidnapping, and Joan is here to supervise his interview with the teenaged babysitter who was minding the child at the time he was taken. The babysitter certainly isn’t a suspect, and besides, Morse said the details of her home life could inform his investigation, so he’s questioning her here, rather than down the station. However, in light of some of the sketchier details gleaned from the investigation thus far, it seems some Welfare presence is indicated.

Joan supposes she should be grateful her services were invited prior to the interview, rather than hastily tacked on afterward or “conveniently” forgotten entirely. Not everyone in CID is so respectful of Welfare’s involvement. Still, it’s awkward, being here with her boyfriend in this particular capacity. They’re certainly professional enough to make it work, but it’s still a little odd to interact with him as “DS Morse, Thames Valley” instead of _her_ Morse.

The door is opened by a woman who appears to be in her late twenties, early thirties at most. Most likely too young to be the biological mother of Valerie Thomas, the babysitter they’re here to question. The woman is carrying an infant who’s clearly mid-fuss, from the red, wrinkled face, but who is currently quietly curious at the sudden appearance of the two interlopers. Joan lets Morse handle the initial introductions.

Perfunctorily, he flashes his warrant card and recites, “Detective Sergeant Morse, ma’am, Thames Valley. This is my colleague Miss Thursday, from the Welfare. We’re looking for Valerie Thomas, if you’d be able to help us, Mrs…?”

“Thomas, Mrs Thomas. Marilyn. I’m Valerie’s mother - well, stepmother, I suppose, but I’m the only one she’s got. Do come in. What exactly do you need with Val? Is this about the kidnapping?”

“Yes, we just have a few questions for Valerie, to get her take on that night. Nothing to be concerned about, though Miss Thursday is here to supervise as well, to ensure things go smoothly.”

The baby chooses that moment to take back up her wailing. Mrs Thomas looks rather helpless for a second, then thrusts the unhappy infant toward Morse, who appears slightly alarmed. “Here, could you hold her while I run upstairs to get Val? She was sleeping earlier; it’s all been quite an ordeal for her, as I’m sure you can imagine. I won’t be gone a minute. Be good, Dawn, please,” and then she rushes up the stairs without looking back.

Joan’s a little surprised that she didn’t end up holding the baby; after all, people tend to assume she must have some maternal instincts, being both a woman and someone who defends the young and vulnerable for a living. However, her hands are rather full at the moment, with her notebook as well as Morse’s, and a folder of evidence, the latter two of which Morse forgot in the Jag when he got out and Joan rescued them as she followed behind him. She can’t help the competing instincts to laugh and swoon as she watches Morse awkwardly cradle baby Dawn, trying to find a position that might alleviate the screaming. When nothing else works, he settles for balancing her on his hip and sort of bouncing up and down, which does manage to quiet her down some.

There’s something about seeing the man you love holding a baby that sets one’s heart alight and stomach doing flip-flops. Joan’s not sure she’ll ever recover from this, actually; it might be the single most adorable sight she’s ever witnessed. Morse doesn’t seem particularly practiced at holding babies, but he’s not half bad at it either. Dawn, at least, seems willing to consider overlooking his inexperience.

He glances at her, and from the blush that spreads across his cheeks, Joan guesses she’s wearing her fascination openly on her own face. He opens his mouth to say something, but just then, Mrs Thomas reappears, prodding a sullen teenager down the stairs.

“Oh, you got her to calm down! That’s wonderful; she really took to you. Thank you so much,” Marilyn Thomas gushes, taking her younger daughter back from a doubtless relieved Morse. “Sometimes it really is all I can do to keep afloat with both girls at once. If you’d like to come in and sit down? You can get started with Val while I put the kettle on.”

As Morse starts in on his questions for Valerie, Joan admires the mix of gentleness and firm confidence in the way he treats her. His message is loud and clear: _It’s safe to talk to me, but you need to tell the truth._

“How old are you, Valerie?”

“Fourteen. I’ll be fifteen in two months.”

“You’re a little young for overnight child minding, don’t you think?” 

Mrs Thomas bristles, but to her credit, says nothing. Valerie frowns and objects, “They only live a few streets down, and I could always call Marilyn if I needed to. I’ve been minding Christopher since he was tiny. It shouldn’t - shouldn’t have…”

The girl’s lower lip trembles, though she looks like she’s resolutely refusing to cry. Morse smoothly treads back to safer ground for the time being. “You said you’ve been watching Christopher for a while now. How was it you came to work for the family?”

“Oh, they’re old friends of mine and Edward’s,” Marilyn cuts in. “I thought it would be a nice chance for Val to make a little pocket change on weekends here and there. It’s been, what, two years now? More of a mother’s helper thing at first, you know, with either Barbara or myself still around. Once Dawn came, though, that became less doable, and she was certainly responsible enough to handle looking after a child for a few hours on her own.”

Morse scribbles notes, but peering over his shoulder, Joan doesn’t think they seem to be particularly connected to what was just said. He asks, “What are they like?”

Valerie blinks, looking confused. “Mr and Mrs Babbit?”

“And Christopher. The whole family.”

“Oh,” Valerie muses, “I don’t know… Nice, I guess. Easygoing, and friendly to everyone. Christopher’s such a happy baby, it’s no wonder. And, I don’t know, just… easy to talk to, I think. Mr Babbit asks me about school, or Mrs Babbit always remembers what bands I like to listen to. They’re just like that… Make you feel seen, even if you’re just ‘the help.’”

“Were they happy, from what you could see?”

“What?”

“Sometimes, when a couple is very angry at one another, they’ll do all sorts of things to get back at each other. Possibly including arranging a kidnapping. Is that something you think is possible, with what you know of the Babbits?”

“Detective Morse!” Marilyn interjects, sounding scandalized. “This is completely inappropriate, to insinuate—”

“No,” Valerie interrupts, determined. “No, that wouldn’t be them. They both doted on Christopher, and they really loved each other. It was so obvious, just looking at them - and it wasn’t like they’d just gotten married either, but they were still so… _good_ to each other. Just the little things, like Mr Babbit taking Mrs Babbit’s coat and holding doors for her, and her always making his favorite dinners - I used to help with the cooking too, when it was both of us. I can’t imagine either of them wanting to hurt each other at all, much less at Christopher’s expense.”

Morse nods thoughtfully and taps his pen against his notepad. Joan wonders if this matches up with his interview of the couple. “Now, Valerie, there’s something I wanted to ask you about the statement you gave to the police officer on the scene. You said you didn’t hear or see the kidnapper because you were asleep when Christopher was taken, is that right?”

Valerie shoots her mother a nervous glance out the corner of her eye, then swallows and replies, “Yeah.”

At this, Joan takes her cue and jumps in smoothly to ask Mrs Thomas if she would mind terribly if Joan imposed on her for another cup of tea. She weights her words carefully so the other woman catches her meaning, and obligingly disappears to the kitchen.

“I think,” Morse says, once Valerie’s stepmother is out of earshot, “that the reason you didn’t hear the kidnapper break in is twofold: you weren’t in the house at the time, and the kidnapper didn’t break in at all.”

The statement would sound absurd, except that the sickening feeling in Joan’s stomach tells her she’s already following Morse’s thread of reasoning. She’s only scarcely glanced through Morse’s evidence folder, but his conclusion lines up from what she’s seen so far.

Valerie, obviously on the verge of tears, chokes out, “We didn’t mean - it wasn’t supposed to - I just didn’t want him to get in trouble!”

While Morse has been doing well so far, balancing the need to get at the truth with his responsibility not to further traumatize his witness, Joan knows now is the time for her to intervene. She steps forward and places a gentle hand on Morse’s shoulder, then she proceeds to pick up the threads he’s been carefully weaving together. 

“Valerie, you have a boyfriend, don’t you? That’s whose secrets you’ve been trying to keep?” The girl nods, and Joan continues, “What can you tell me about him?” When this fails to elicit a response, she prompts, “How old is he?”

Valerie’s face crumples as she reluctantly whispers, “Twenty-two.” Joan’s stomach sinks even further. Not that she’s surprised; the darting glances toward the kitchen have been telling: this isn’t a boyfriend Valerie’s stepmother knows about, and the concern isn’t just that she saw him that night - she can’t even admit to his existence. This case has well and truly become one of hers now.

“What’s his name?”

“Michael.”

They’ll need a surname, of course, but they can get that later. “And how did you meet Michael?”

“Sometimes I meet up with friends in the park down the street a little ways, after school usually. I’d gotten into a fight with Sarah and was starting towards home when I ran into him, and we got to talking and he offered to walk me home. Not that he could come the whole way, of course, not if Marilyn was in, but…It was nice, anyway, having someone to talk to, someone who treated me like I was actually worth listening to.”

Morse gives Joan a questioning glance, careful not to overstep; warily, she nods. He asks, “Did you and Michael ever talk about your work for the Babbits?”

“It came up, probably; not all the time. Mostly he just listened to me prattle on about whatever was on my mind. I’d meet up with him at the park on my way home from school, and he’d walk me most of the rest of the way. We went to the movies once or twice, too - I told Marilyn I was meeting Sarah.” She draws a shuddering breath. “I told him I’d be minding Christopher overnight, and he said… he said it would be a good time for him to come see me, since Marilyn or anyone wouldn’t be around to make judgments. So I let him in that night, but - but he can’t possibly have taken Christopher, see; we stepped out together. I must have left the back door open; I thought Michael closed it behind me, but I guess he didn’t. We were only gone for a half hour at most! But when we got back…”

She’s sobbing now, quietly, but noticeably enough that Mrs Thomas pokes her head into the room, looking worried. Joan gives her a sympathetic expression, mouths, “Later,” and makes a shooing motion, while Valerie is distracted enough to hopefully not notice. Then she sits down next to the girl and puts an arm around her, praying it comes off as comforting and not patronizing. They need her to keep talking.

“If the back door was already open,” Morse prods, “then why was the glass broken?”

With a hiccup, Valerie confesses, “That was Michael’s idea. He didn’t want me to get blamed, he said, when it wasn’t my fault, so we should make it look like someone had broken in.”

“He didn’t do half bad, at that. Had the police fooled, near enough. Not that any of us looked too closely, with the more obvious answer right in front of us.” He keeps his tone carefully neutral, but Joan can hear the frustration nonetheless, and see it, in the tight pull of his mouth, the hand rubbing angrily at the back of his head. He’s not angry with Valerie; no, he’s berating himself for not noticing sooner. Joan wishes she could comfort him right now, but it’s hardly the time. _Later_ , she promises herself, just as she assured Mrs Thomas.

She watches as Morse inhales deeply and closes his eyes for a moment; when he opens them, they’ve softened, and he fixes Valerie with a kind yet fierce stare. “Thank you, Valerie, you’ve been very helpful.” After a beat, he pleads, “For just one more moment, please listen to me. What happened to Christopher was not your fault. A bad man manipulated you, and that’s on no one’s head but his.” 

He raises his eyes to Joan, then, all compassionate blue fire, and she swallows. A tiny nod - _yes, I hear you_ \- even though, after all this time, it’s still not a message she’s quite managed to internalize.

On their way out, Joan stops to catch Mrs Thomas up on what’s transpired, and to let her know someone from the Welfare will be in contact to pick up where this has left off in terms of Valerie’s relationship with Michael. It will probably be Joan herself, she hopes it will be, but she can’t promise that yet. Part of her wants to blame Marilyn Thomas for being so uninvolved as to not know this was happening under her nose - too distracted with the new baby to pay attention to her older daughter - but she sees the genuine grief in the other woman’s expression, the way she covers her mouth to trap in a wail, and she knows her anger is misplaced. Morse is right: the only one at fault here is a man who would prey on a young girl for information.

**

She catches up with Morse at the car, fiddling with the keys and looking very far away. Almost mechanically, he opens the door for her and then settles into the driver's seat. It’s plain to see that he’s itching with this new lead, but she also knows that look of echoing empathy. One child taken advantage of, and another missing… It’s the perfect storm for an unrelenting obsession, the kind of case that will have Morse up at all hours and forgetting to eat.

“Do you want me to drop you off at work or at home?”

The preceding silence wasn’t particularly long, but Joan is so caught up in her own thoughts that it’s jarring to return to present concerns. “Well, home first, but… Did you forget?”

Morse appears confused at first, but then he shakes his head as if to clear it. “Oh, right.” He did forget, of course he did - and to be fair, it’s not as though Joan has reminded him recently. She’s supposed to stay with him for a week, while Pauline’s parents are in town. She’d volunteered to be the one to vacate her room, and she could tell how relieved both roommates were not to have to ask, but it seems obvious: even if Helen weren’t closer to Pauline than she is, Joan’s the one with a boyfriend she can stay with. She doesn’t resent it, either; she knows Pauline rarely gets to see her family, and besides, it’s not as though spending more time with Morse is any torture. She’s stayed the night here and there, not often, but this is the first time she’ll be living with him for any extended period, and when they made their plans two weeks ago, the prospect had seemed exciting. A little bit scandalous, maybe, but what girl wouldn’t jump at the chance for a few days of domesticity with her boyfriend?

Right, well, a boyfriend who’s currently embroiled in a sensitive kidnapping case. “If it doesn’t work out now, I can figure something else out. I could ask Veronica…”

“No, it’s fine,” Morse cuts in. “It’ll be good, actually. I probably wouldn’t see you during this otherwise; at least this way you’ll know where I am, even if we do end up two ships passing in the night.” He smiles over at her, slightly; he’s still mostly somewhere else, but he’s trying. “Did you already pack whatever you need? We can swing by yours on our way home.”

“Morse…” She hesitates. It’s a lot to ask, to stay over during a case like this. He’s bound to get wrapped up in it, lost to it. Perhaps, though, that’s all the more reason for her to want to be there with him. Maybe with her around, he’ll actually get some sleep here and there; maybe she can talk him into a decent meal, or at least do like Mum does and send him off with sandwiches. Sometimes, she’s able to draw him out a little when he’s spiraling.

 _On our way home._ Home, with Morse. It’s a warm thought, and a hint of a rather appealing future. Right, then, that settles it. “Yeah, there are just a couple odds and ends I’ll need to grab, but it shouldn’t take more than a minute. My bag is by the door. Will you be home tonight, or are you going back?”

“I’ll need to ring the station when we get back, and then your father, and then I’ll probably have to go back in.” He sounds apologetic. “I know it’s hardly a romantic way to spend a night over.”

“That’s alright; I knew what I was getting into, dating a copper.” She reaches over to squeeze his hand. “Besides, this case has hardly yet begun for me, either. Val’s situation with Michael has got Welfare written all over it.” Morse hums in agreement, and Joan, recognizing this is one of the few times they can really discuss their active cases, presses forward, “So you think he used her to get to the Babbit boy?”

“I don’t know if that’s why he originally went after her or not, but it’s pretty clear his job was to distract Valerie to facilitate the kidnapping. Michael Garris, he’s got a handful of priors - gangland connections. Owen Babbit is exactly the sort of respected businessman who might make for a good target for this sort of thing. They’re quite wealthy, the Babbits, but they’re new money - not so much practice with when and where to flaunt it, and more naive about the less wholesome elements of society.” His face turns to a sneer that Joan knows has nothing to do with the Babbits themselves and everything to do with what’s been wrought upon them.

“So they’ve kidnapped him for some financial payout, or sway over the company? What I don’t understand is why they haven’t made any ransom demands.”

“Oh,” Morse says grimly, knuckles white on the steering wheel, “I wager they have. Only the parents have foolishly abided by the order not to involve the police.” They’re pulling up outside Joan’s flat now, and he exhales heavily. “Do you want me to come up with you?”

“No, you’re alright. I won’t be a minute.” She leans in to kiss his cheek before swinging her legs out of the car. “I like this, you know. Not the circumstances, it’s all horrible, but… having a case, together. Getting to listen to you solve it.”

“Solving it with me, more like,” he says fondly. She beams, and then turns to quickly dart inside. It’s sure to be quite a week ahead of them.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise bonus chapter this weekend because I have zero chill and I'm excited, because I just really, really love the direction this fic is going and how I'm wrapping it up, actually!

It’s been easier for Joan to visit her parents now that both she and Mum have mostly patched things up with Dad, but they still try to set aside time for “just us girls” every now and then. They went for lunch at a cute little tea shop in town this afternoon, Joan’s treat, and now they’re walking around the trail at a park, neither of them quite sure how to wrap up the outing with no real schedule to return to. Though they’re side by side, neither says anything, each wandering the familiar paths of their own mental maps.

Unbidden, the image of Morse holding the Thomas baby yesterday creeps into Joan’s thoughts, and she feels a heaviness in her chest, some aching, nameless mixture of warmth and melancholy. He’d looked simultaneously awkward and adorable in the most charming way; it’s clear he doesn’t have much experience with infants, and he’s hardly a natural, but he’s also got a deep and abiding softness to him that Joan suspects he hasn’t let many people see. She considers herself lucky, to know his gentleness. He wasn’t half bad with Valerie, either, balancing firm and kind in the exact right measure. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised; she’s seen Morse with children before, even recalcitrant teenagers - she thinks of the kids from that crazy key party case, the Humboldt children… and then she remembers, with a flush of something that’s probably mostly embarrassment (and maybe a little of something else, too), the little boy asking if Joan and Morse could adopt him. And mixed-up, big-hearted Flora’s simple explanation: _“They’re just friends.”_ As though that were the answer to everything that needed answered. 

All at once, somehow, it’s entirely too much.

“I was pregnant,” Joan confides, rather suddenly. It’s how her confessions usually go, after all. She hears her own voice too clearly: deceptively calm, with no wobble yet to betray the tears pricking behind her eyes.

Win doesn’t look at her, doesn’t say anything, knowing her daughter too well: if she acknowledges this too soon, Joan will retreat.

“I came back here. To Oxford. I don’t know why, I wasn’t planning to stay, but I couldn’t… Ray had - well, he didn’t want me in the flat anymore. Gave me a few weeks to get my things together and leave. I don’t know if he meant it or not. But I was scared, and I felt so alone, and… I couldn’t come back to you and Dad, not yet, so I went to Morse’s. And he…” Joan inhales sharply. “He asked me to marry him.”

Joan sees Win startle, but still she doesn’t say anything. Her mother knows some of the context already, the awfulness of her time in Leamington, referenced mostly in hints and sketched into the spaces between words. The details behind her return are new, though.

“I’m sure he just meant it as a way out. Or,” she pauses, remembering their conversation from several months back, “at least, that’s what I thought, at the time. He didn’t even know about the baby, just that I was in over my head, and… He’s a good man, you know.” She catches sight of her mum’s slight smile at that out of the corner of her eye. “Too good for his own good, really. So I left, I went back h-home,” she stumbles over the word, “and I… lost the baby.”

Now that she’s started, she can’t seem to stop the words from pouring forth. “I didn’t want it, not really, but there was still something… I don’t know. I would have been a terrible mother, probably. Far too selfish. But I’d have had a purpose, maybe. I think about it, now, and I still… I don’t know if I can have children, anymore. The doctor said there was no harm done, but what if I can’t? What if—” she hiccups. “What if… if things go well, and one day… I can’t give Morse children? Not,” she backpedals hastily, “not that it’s something to worry about now, we haven’t even had that conversation - I don’t know if he’d want kids, and we haven’t really even talked about marriage yet - even if it’s someone else someday, you know, I just - well. It’s a lot, you know.”

Silence falls, then, broken only by the whistling wind, as Joan finally runs out of steam. “Oh, Joanie,” her mother says softly at last. Carefully, she reaches out to grip her daughter’s hand, enfolding it in her ever-present, solid warmth. “That sounds like a lot of heavy worries to carry at once.”

There’s nothing to say, really, so Joan keeps quiet. It’s her turn to listen.

“I wish you hadn’t felt so alone in all that. I don’t understand what you went through, at the bank, or any of it - I don’t know why you left. I imagine you don’t quite, either, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever it was that happened to you, it was all done to you and you didn’t deserve any of it, you understand? That you made it out at all is a testament to a strong woman I’m proud to have raised.”

Joan feels tears pricking at her eyes again.

“Miscarriage is a strange kind of grief; how do you mourn for something you barely knew you had before it was gone? For what it’s worth, I think you would be a wonderful mum, if that’s ever the path you choose. I know you don’t want that simple life cut from a pattern, but if it’s ever in your future… And I can’t speak to the medical side of it, of course, but you know there are other ways, if that’s what you want. Adoption, you know - you work for the Welfare, you’ve seen what a gift that can be.

“As for Morse…” Win goes on, determined. “That man has been in love with you from the first time he ever saw you; you know that, don’t you? That first day he walked into our house, I saw the way he looked at you. Or tried not to, really; you remember how shy he used to be. He’d hang the moon for you, if you let him. Marriage or no, children or no. As much as you’ll give him, that’s what he’ll have, and count his lucky stars for it in any shape. And,” she finishes softly, “that’s exactly the way I’d always hoped someone would treat my daughter.”

Certain spots along the path are bordered with flowers, and they’re passing a little patch of daffodils now. Joan recalls a vase of them sitting on Morse’s kitchen table, just over a year ago now, a decisive step forward into something they’d both wanted for so long. At times, it seems impossible it could have taken so many missteps to get where they are now. She feels drawn into Morse’s life as though by a gravitational pull, something as unassailable as the motions of the stars. They’ve always somehow found their way back to each other, no matter how far they’ve run. For all her hedging earlier, she knows, with something deeper than conscious comprehension, that it would take nothing short of some galactic cataclysm to separate the two of them now.

There’s something there, she’s beginning to grasp, that she’ll have to discuss with Morse eventually. Some incontrovertible truth, some axiomatic theory of their mini universe, that she wonders whether he’s realized, too, or whether this time, she’s the slower of the two to catch on. For now, though, she focuses on gratitude for the closeness with her mother. It’s something she wondered whether they would ever get back, after she fled Oxford, and she chides her younger self for ever taking such a gift for granted. Well, that’s the way of things, isn’t it, between mothers and daughters? It’s not until sometime into that hard-won independence that either can truly appreciate the other as a person, and not just on the level of the role she’s always filled.


	18. Chapter 18

Sleeping over at her boyfriend’s for a week would definitely have been more fun if said boyfriend were actually around for any sleeping, Joan thinks. It’s selfish, probably, but she can’t help feeling just a tad cross about it.

She knows better than to stay up waiting for him. They crossed paths briefly at breakfast yesterday, but otherwise he hasn’t really been home. He must have slept on the couch last night, to keep from waking her, if he came home at all. 

Something startles her awake that night, though she can’t place it at first. Joan has never been a particularly sound sleeper; even as a child, her parents had to chase her back to bed many nights, whereas raising Sam before he was good and ready was akin to interrupting the slumber of the dead. Nothing seems particularly amiss as she listens closely to the humming, easy night, and finally she gets up and pads toward the kitchen, thinking perhaps her body simply woke her for a glass of water. 

She lets out a half shriek when she gets there, before she recognizes the other presence in the kitchen. “Morse!” she hisses. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I do still live here, contrary to appearances,” he tries to joke, but his voice is too thin and tired to hold onto a slippery thing like humor. 

The bag of frozen peas in his hands answers her question, anyway. She frowns, and steps closer; when she glimpses his obviously broken nose, she bites her cheek hard enough to draw blood. She inhales sharply. “What happened?”

A sigh. “Finally tracked down Michael Garris; got caught unawares by some of his _business associates_ ,” Morse mutters. 

“You went after him alone?” Joan demands, wincing at her own tone. She’s trying, she really is, but doesn’t he know what a _fool_ he’s being, he could’ve been hurt so much worse, he—

“Of course not, I had Strange and one of the night shift boys with me.” He sounds affronted. “We happened to get separated, is all. Trust me, Harrison looks far worse than I do now. Your father sent me home for a kip while Garris stews in holding, said if I showed up before seven tomorrow morning, he’d personally—” A gasp interrupts his story as he goes to move the bag of peas to his face, and Joan is instantly at his side, anxiously checking him over for further injury. “Ah. That’s worse than I thought, then,” he grumbles.

“What is?”

“Well, they got my shoulder pretty good - arm, too, apparently. It might be a little broken,” Morse admits.

“A _little_? What does a _little_ broken mean?” Without waiting for him to answer, she grasps his good shoulder and steers him toward the bedroom, where she begins a wordless, single-minded search.

“Joan? What are you doing?”

“Making you a sling of sorts, until you get yourself to the police surgeon and get it set. I’d march you over to Casualty now, but I know you, this is the only hours of sleep you’re likely to get. Promise me you’ll get it dealt with properly tomorrow, though?”

Despite herself, she lets out a startled hiss as she busies herself with tending to a particularly nasty cut on his upper arm. Harsh as her tone may be, her hands are gentle as she dabs at the cut with antiseptic, and once that’s bandaged, she eases his arm into position so she can wrap it tightly in place.

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” Morse attempts to look over his shoulder at the makeshift sling, regarding it dubiously. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Picked up a few things from Mum over the years; Sam was not a particularly graceful child. Well, I suppose you haven’t got anything stronger than an aspirin lying about, have you? Maybe that’ll convince you to see a doctor tomorrow.” She sounds too intense, almost caustic, even to her own ears, yet she can’t seem to help it.

“Maybe some scotch?” Morse offers hopefully.

“Fine, I’ll get you a glass. Meanwhile, you get ready for bed - oh!” she cries, “I shouldn’t’ve put that on while you’re still dressed - how are you going to get pajamas on over that?”

Morse fixes her with a bemused sort of expression, then snorts. “You don’t need to mother me, Joan. I’ll be fine. I’m only home for a few hours anyway; might as well sleep in my clothes. Not like they’ll expect me in my Sunday best for the interrogation tomorrow.”

Joan hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, then asks, “Garris not talking, then?”

“Not yet, though I expect a night in the cells will loosen his tongue. Connections he’s got, won’t take long for word of his situation to get out, and his _entanglement_ with the Thomas girl won’t help his case any.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Joan replies with no shortage of bitterness. When she returns with the promised scotch, she finds Morse gingerly trying to position himself on the mattress so his arm makes as little contact as possible. He accepts the drink gratefully and downs it in a gulp, then lays down with a pained sigh.

Joan settles in next to him, trying her best to limit any jostling. After a few moments of silence, she very carefully curls around him, avoiding any injuries she knows about and praying, for many reasons, that there aren’t more. She lets her hands make the apology she’s still too worried to get out in words, running one down his good arm and tracing his cheek with the other. Holding Morse like this is something of a treat, and it’s a good thing Joan doesn’t move a lot in her sleep, because when exhausted, Morse sleeps like a kiddie and usually ends up splayed out like a starfish. Mindfully, she slows down her breathing, and after a little while, Morse’s begins to match. When she’s sure he’s fallen asleep, she tries to convince her body he’s safe, here with her for a little while at least, and eventually allows herself to do the same.

**

She dreams of blood, a slow red rose opening its petals across a bright white shirt. Shouts in the background, the neverending reverberations of a bullet rending the air around her, her hand against clammy skin, as the pallid face morphs from one she wishes she couldn’t remember - not like this - to the one she’s seen in a thousand different moments, waking or dreamed. The familiar terror recognized Ronnie well enough, but then it’s Morse, it’s always been Morse, Morse who she couldn’t save, Morse who’s going to take a risk too far and one day won’t come home…

She doesn’t even realize she’s awake at first, doesn’t realize the broken scream echoing in her ears was real, that the body curved protectively around her is in the here and now and not beneath the bank - not until she hears the pleading whispers in her ear, feels the kisses pressed fiercely to her hair, all of it calling her back to the present. _I’m here, I’m here,_ he says, _you’re safe, I promise,_ whether in words or simply in everything he is, she can’t be sure. The wracking sobs subside with that, the soothing awareness of his presence; and they breathe in sync, long and slow, until they slip back into a mercifully dreamless sleep together.

**

He slips out of bed early the next morning, and after a few minutes, Joan follows him. She’s not in the mood for breakfast, but she fixes him some toast anyway, figuring he’s more likely to eat if the alternative is telling her no after she’s already gone to the effort. She’s right, of course, a fact which brings her no small satisfaction.

The tension from last night has carried over, an unspoken weight heavy between them, and the light of day hasn’t made it any easier to look at head on.

“I didn’t mean…” Morse begins, then stops, helplessly, clearly lost on what it is he’s supposed to apologize for. And really, Joan isn’t sure what she would want him to say. Does she want him to say sorry for trying to save the world? There’s an infant in danger, for crying out loud, separated from his mother and father; how can she begrudge him his savior complex at a time like this?

Heaven help her, though, she does.

“What can I do?” he says, finally. It’s the right response, probably, equally appropriate after a nightmare and in the face of Joan’s apparent anger at his injury. 

“Come home safe,” she whispers. It’s all she can manage, today. Later, maybe, she’ll find the words, to explain herself, to parse out her reaction for him… and for herself, too. For now, though, it’s all she can do to keep her hands from trembling too noticeably as she straightens his crooked tie, and to give him a wan smile in response to his plaintive goodbye kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a tough one for me... I'm not great at writing interpersonal conflict, especially without "resolving" it too quickly and neatly, to the point where it loses any meaning/impact. Everything about this last arc surprised me, to the point it often felt like these chapters were writing themselves! Which is weird because you look at the page and you're like, "Well, now, this doesn't seem right, what's happening?" (especially because I write out of order), but then as I fill in the gaps, I get to sit back and almost see the thing as a reader instead of a writer, so that's kind of cool. Also disconcerting, lol. Anyway, I am very very close to done with this story, and I'm going to *try* to keep up with a more frequent posting schedule - thanks for sticking with me through this fic, and for all the lovely comments!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter! Are you ready? I think I am, if only barely...

Joan spends the morning berating herself, initially at a loss for why she’s reacted the way she has. It’s not as though she didn’t know what she was getting into, in a relationship with a copper, with Morse in particular. His predilection for ill-advised risks is legendary ‘round the nick, and her dad came home fuming about it often enough. This is also certainly not the first time she’s seen him injured. She hardly expected him to change his ways just because he has her worry to carry now, either. For as long as she’s loved him, she’s known how much a part of him the job is: with or without a warrant card, Morse is a detective through and through. That passion and determination is such an integral aspect of his _Morseness_ , and in fact she’s drawn to it, just as much as she is to the softer side of him that only she gets to see.

As she heads into work, she reminds herself forcefully that there’s no need to worry. Morse will be fine; despite his occasional impulsivity, he’s got a good head on his shoulders, and dammit, Dad’s looking out for him. He’ll be fine, he’ll be fine, he’ll be _fine_.

The early part of her workday passes in a blur; she’s in the midst of transitioning two refugee housing cases to her newest coworker, and she’s just learned from Veronica that’s she’ll be called upon for testimony in yet another custody case. When Viv gets in, Joan dutifully catches her up on the Valerie Thomas case, and Viv asks her to take a look at her notes for the custody case. Veronica’s too new to take it on alone, and while Joan recognizes the honor in being asked to supervise and handle speaking up in court, it also feels rather overwhelming to take on the additional responsibility right now.

It’s not long after a lunch break spent hunched over paperwork that the call comes in. Joan hardly pays any mind to the secretary who brightly states there’s someone on the line for her; she brushes past and, with a breathless, anticipatory impatience, picks up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Joanie.” The voice is her father’s, and for all its carefully constructed calm, she has to force herself to swallow a wail. On the list of reasons her father might call her at work, not one of them bodes well. “Now, before we get into it, you needn’t worry overmuch, but I wanted to let you know Morse was taken to Casualty with injuries related to a case. He and Strange and the lads were tracking down some suspects, and one got the drop on him. He’ll be alright, once they’ve had a chance to patch him up, but I thought you should know.”

Joan’s initial reaction wars between fretting for Morse and gratitude that her father saw fit to update her about her boyfriend’s injuries. However, her first words have nothing to do with either of her own relationships. “Did they get the child back?” she asks.

“That’s right, Morse mentioned you were on this one too. Not yet; but we’ve got a location and Strange and I are headed there now. I can’t be at the hospital with him, but then, I’d imagine he’d rather your face when he comes to than mine, anyway.”

Willing herself to stay calm, Joan draws in a shuddering breath. Determined, she chooses to lean on her considerable crisis training, and do her best to compartmentalize for now. “Thanks, Dad. For telling me. And… be safe, alright?”

**

Joan’s pounding heart can scarcely take the slow, methodical practicality of taking the bus over to the hospital. It’s not until she’s finally on her way that it occurs to her she probably could have asked a colleague for a ride, though that would have meant an uncomfortable degree of crossover between her personal and professional lives. Besides, it was enough of a struggle just to get out the words to tell Viv what had happened and explain she had to go - though Viv was waving her off before she’d even gotten the full story out; she’s always been fairly understanding that her team is made up of people with real lives. She spends the journey impatiently tapping her feet, attempting deep breaths, and above all, trying not to let her thoughts get away from her.

Once they pull up to the hospital building - a place Joan wishes she were less familiar with - she slides easily into the practiced habits of her professional self, like donning a well-creased uniform. She marches purposefully up to the front desk and asks her questions in the cool tone of a woman accustomed to disaster. There’s only so much they can tell her, whether from true lack of information or because she isn’t family, she can’t be sure.

She’s perched primly in a plastic chair, mind deliberately blank, when a somewhat familiar voice drifts over: “Miss Thursday?”

From across the room, Dr DeBryn catches her eye, and with the light of recognition, begins making his way over to her. She and the pathologist have crossed paths now and then, though not often; she hasn’t seen him since quiz night after the choir concert, come to think of it. Still, she’s grateful for his presence, in light of his friendship with Morse - even if unspoken, it helps to have someone to share the burden of her worry with.

He settles into the chair next to her, and asks, with a small smile, “Here to call on your young man?”

It sounds so incredibly outdated that, were the situation any less dire, Joan would probably snort out a laugh. She remembers the doctor as someone perpetually, uniquely out of place in a way that, while different from Morse, certainly explains their friendship. Two unrepentant oddballs, awash in a sea of conformity, would naturally be drawn to each other. With a watery sort of smile, Joan returns, “I hear he’s gotten himself into a spot of trouble.”

“Yes,” DeBryn sighs, “he does have a penchant for just that. I’m never quite sure how much it is that he finds trouble versus trouble finds him.”

Tentatively, Joan asks, “Do you know if…”

“I haven’t much more of an update than you were likely given already, I’m afraid. Not as bad as it seemed at first, I think - nothing life-threatening, certainly. Right now he’s under to have a particularly nasty compound fracture addressed. I can tell you the surgeon working on his arm is one of our finest. Though of course, I imagine the powers that be have learned by now it’s not worth the fuss I’ll kick up if they attempt to put anyone from the lesser echelons of the rota in charge of any coppers who should find their way onto the caseload.” With a sigh, he removes his glasses and begins rubbing at them with the edge of his sleeve. “I do hope you didn’t get any grief for leaving work early on Morse’s account. He’s quite proud of your work with the Welfare, you know.”

Joan looks over at him sharply. “He talks about my work?”

“Oh, nothing beyond what’s appropriate. Just that you work very hard and you have a gift for rapport with your clients, that sort of thing. The last time we were chatting in my garden, he mentioned you got top marks in your latest coursework… thrice, in case I wasn’t listening the first time, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… It’s just that it’s, you know, nice to know that he talks about me. Or,” Joan gives an awkward little laugh, “I suppose it’s obvious he would have to talk about me sometimes, I just mean - that he brags about me, I guess. I’m sorry he’s bored you with tales of my rather mundane academic exploits.”

“On the contrary, Miss Thursday, I enjoy listening to Morse exult on your account. It’s very apparent he’s quite taken with you, and it’s not often I’ve had the joy of seeing Morse give all of himself to anything other than his work.” 

Joan smiles then to herself, perhaps the first genuine one of the day, feeling something warm spreading through her chest. Dr DeBryn goes on to ask her a few questions about the Welfare, her coworkers, what she’s found most interesting about her classes; then they move on into broader topics, settling comfortably on books for a little while. He’s a gifted conversationalist, the sort who can manage to find common ground anywhere, even if it’s not a preferred topic; she knows he’s making an effort to distract her while they await any further update on Morse’s condition. 

Once a nurse finds her to pass on the news that the surgery is nearly finished and Morse should be moved to recovery soon, DeBryn excuses himself, saying he really does need to get back downstairs to his duties, and asks her to give Morse his regards. Though well-disguised, she catches a hint of sarcasm underneath the platitude, and she’s sure she can imagine the sort of message he’d prefer to pass along. Well, Morse does have that effect on people, doesn’t he? Stubborn as anything, and doubtless he’s availed himself of the mortuary table as one of the pathologist’s few breathing patients a time or two.

The waiting is easier, after that. Knowing Morse’s condition isn’t so bad as she initially feared, that the worst he’s likely to come out of this with is a cast and a bad attitude for a few weeks while he’s stuck on light duties, has done wonders for Joan’s worries. To her surprise, her dad joins her eventually, taking the chair vacated earlier by Dr DeBryn. Before he even utters a word, he wraps an arm around Joan’s shoulders and holds her tight for a long minute, and Joan relishes the comfort: even as a grown woman, there’s nothing that quite says “everything will be all right now” like a hug from a parent. 

By the time an orderly comes out to fetch them to see Morse, evening has fallen. “I’m afraid visiting hours are nearly up, and he’s not likely to wake anytime soon,” the orderly says apologetically. “I can take you back to see him, but only for a few minutes.”

Joan looks to her father, but Fred shakes his head. “You go on, Joanie. They’ll let me in to see him later.” He raises an eyebrow at the orderly, and Joan can fill in the rest of his sentence: something about _not bloody likely they’ll chase a detective inspector from his bagman’s bedside,_ peppered with some well-meant lie about protective detail if anyone dares to push. She gathers her purse and follows the orderly through the double doors and down the hall, till she’s left at another chair with a cracked vinyl covering, this one beside an unconscious Morse.

His face does look rather worse for the wear than it did when she saw him last night, though to be fair, some of that could be the stark fluorescent lighting compared to the dark of home. Dark bruises radiate out from his recently readjusted nose, marking cheekbones further marred by a laceration she doesn’t remember seeing yesterday. She imagines there are probably a fair few more sprinkled about under the pale blue hospital gown, but her gaze is drawn to the unwieldy cast now decorating one arm. A doctor explained earlier that with surgery, the arm should actually heal somewhat faster than a simple break left to its own devices, though Joan can already hear Morse’s impatience as he rushes to get back to work. _Stubborn sod_ , she thinks fondly, brushing golden curls back from his forehead.

**

When Morse heavily blinks open eyes that feel weighted down by something akin to bricks, he’s not especially surprised to see Thursday slouched in the chair next to his bed. After all, they’ve repeated this scene a fair few times by now.

“Sir,” he says groggily, voice like sandpaper. It’s all he can manage so far.

“Morse,” returns the inspector. “Nice of you to rejoin the rest of us at last. Was beginning to despair of making it home to my own bed tonight at all.”

Morse rolls a few words around on his tongue and finds he doesn’t have the energy for too many of them at once yet. “Late?”

“You spent a good chunk of the afternoon in surgery for that arm of yours. Garris’s cronies got you good, or so I hear.”

“Did we…?”

“The Babbit boy is safe and sound, returned home with his parents. We’ve got enough to do for every one of the bastards that took him.”

Morse attempts a nod, relieved.

“I expect you gave my daughter quite a fright,” Thursday adds, conversationally.

At that, Morse rouses a bit more thoroughly. “Joan - where…? Is she here?”

“She was, earlier, while you were still off in dream land. They finally chased her out a fair bit after visiting hours. You took your sweet time coming out from anesthesia.”

“She put me back together again, before I went and undid all her efforts,” he says remorsefully. 

“Well. All the king’s horses, and all the king’s men. Thankfully you ended up under a rather more skilled knife than Humpty-Dumpty ever found.” Thursday is quiet for a moment, and the lingering sedatives in Morse’s veins threaten to lull him back under. “It’s not just your own life you’re risking now, you know,” Fred says at last, measuredly.

“I know,” Morse says instantly. Tongue perhaps loosened by the drugs, he continues, “It’s not just my life: it’s ours, the one we’re building together. I know cases like this don’t always show it, sir, but I really am trying. To do better by her.”

Thursday nods thoughtfully. “I know that, lad. But it’s more than just minding where you step when you’re on a case. It’s watching yourself with the booze, and considering how your decisions - work or otherwise - affect the both of you. Including her in those decisions, even when your instinct is to go it alone. And, maybe seems contradictory to that last, but you’ve got to learn to leave some things at work. I know you haven’t got the hall stand, and that’s between you, but you’ve got to find your equivalent, some way you can lay aside the worries of the day. She doesn’t need a copper at home, Morse. She just needs you to be there, truly present. And running yourself into the ground’s no good for the nick any more than it is for your home life.”

Morse sighs. It was easier to argue with Thursday about his insistence upon maintaining some kind of actual boundaries around his personal life back when he wasn’t dating the man’s daughter. Then again, much as it pains his stubborn side to admit it, that is exactly the impetus to drive him to improve the habits his governor has been after him about for years. He settles for a terse, “I know.” After all, what else is there for him to say? 

Thursday readjusts his position in the chair, letting out a stifled groan that testifies to how long he’s sat here, waiting for his bagman to wake from a well-induced slumber. “I know it’s not a chat you’re much interested in having with me,” he says, reading Morse’s mind. “Fair enough, too; it’s between you and Joan, more than you and me. It’s always a tough spot to navigate, that space between inspector and father, and it hasn’t gotten any simpler this past year. We’ll just keep muddling our way through, though, won’t we?”

Quiet descends, not altogether easy, though certainly not unfriendly. After a few beats, Thursday rises and tips his hat to Morse. “Get some sleep, now. Doctor said you’ll like as not be released in the morning; I’ll be back to pick you up. For now, I’d best be getting back, so Win’ll stop her fretting.”

Hospitals are never truly quiet places. There’s the constant beeps and hums of machinery, steady feet clipping down the hall as nurses stride off to check on patients, and intermittently the muffled sound of voices crying out. Still, it’s somehow lonelier than silence. It’s funny, Morse muses, as he shifts this way and that, trying in vain to get comfortable, how even though it seems like he can’t possibly have gotten used to it already, it feels so strange and empty to fall asleep without Joan at his side.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling weirdly emotional about finally posting this LAST chapter! I've had so, so much fun writing this and sharing it. I haven't written fanfic in a long time, or really anything longer than a poem, and it's been so encouraging to get back to it again. To anyone who's been along for the ride - whether from the beginning, or if you've come along well after this was originally posted - thank you!!

If Thursday is surprised to see his daughter waiting at his bagman’s house when he drops him off, he’s careful not to show it. 

“Mind he gets his pills down him. Full course of antibiotics, and some painkillers to see him through the next few days.” He fixes Morse with an appraising sort of glare, one Morse imagines he had plenty of practice giving his own children over the years. “Both are to be taken on a full stomach, _as Morse knows_ , so none of this business running about on half a biscuit and a cup of tea. He’s not to return to work for _at least_ two days - not that he’s likely to be in any rush to get back to light duties while that arm heals up.”

“I did already get the full lecture from the doctor when he discharged me,” Morse mutters.

“And I’m passing on his instructions to Joan, in the hopes you’ll actually listen to her. Clearly neither self-preservation nor respect for the medical profession has proved sufficient motivation so far.”

After he deposits the pill bottles on the kitchen counter, Thursday looks to Joan with a decidedly softer expression. “Alright, then, love?”

Joan nods, a little stiffly. “We’ll manage. Thanks for running him home.”

A warm hand on his daughter’s shoulder and a threatening eyebrow raised at his sergeant is Inspector Thursday’s goodbye, and then he’s off, presumably to oversee wrap-up of all the case minutia that Morse can’t say he’s especially sorry to miss: taking supporting witness statements, logging evidence, and mountains of paperwork. All necessary to make the charges stick, of course, but even the thought of it prompts a yawn. Well, that might be the lingering effects of the anesthesia, come to think of it.

Shoulders hunched, Joan makes her way toward the kitchen, cupboards banging as she searches for something she clearly isn’t finding. After a moment, Morse follows her.

“Joan,” he says tentatively, “are you… what are you looking for?”

“Checking to see what you’ve got in for lunch,” she answers, without looking at him. “I was going to do the food shopping after work yesterday, but that clearly didn’t happen.”

Morse shifts uncertainly from one foot to the other. “I’ve just had a round of painkillers; you don’t need to go to all that trouble just now.”

Her tone is sharp as she counters, “You still need to _eat_ , Morse. It’s a requirement of being human, not just for the sake of medicine.”

He sighs and tugs at his ear; is she still angry, then? At what, exactly? That he got himself hurt? That seems unlikely; she’s patched him up after injuries before, after all. Then what? Best to appease for now, perhaps. “You don’t need to make me lunch. Not that I don’t appreciate it, but you’ve had a long couple days; I’m sure I could manage on my own, if you want to… I don’t know, rest, or something.”

Incredulously, she replies, “I’ve had a long couple days? Morse, you just got out of hospital. And no, you really can’t manage, not with that shoulder. Not for a couple days, at least. I should probably bring over more of my things; I was only planning on staying the week, but you need looking after.”

Morse isn’t quite sure whether to believe the note of hope that sings somewhere inside him at Joan’s statement. She isn’t planning to leave, then, not yet. She doesn’t need to play nursemaid, of course - he’s had worse, and made it through without a caregiver - but he also knows Joan, his stubborn, fierce Joan, isn’t one to do what she doesn’t want to. If she’s offering to stay a little longer to look after him, she must mean it, at least somewhat. He’s not sure that means he’s been forgiven, however.

Cautiously, he ventures into that particular mystery. “Were you… upset, when I came home injured the other night?”

“Was I… Of course I was upset! You come home with a broken nose and stabbed in the arm - I think that’s fair for me to worry!”

Morse chews on the inside of his lip for a little bit, feeling some worry himself as he watches Joan fold her arms across herself, as if in a comforting hug. He wants to reach out to her, but he’s pretty sure it’s too soon in what seems to be shaping into an argument. “It’s… it’s not the first time you’ve seen me wounded, though. I don’t…”

Joan sighs. “I know it comes with the territory, Morse. I grew up a copper’s daughter; you think there weren’t times Dad came home having been in the wars? It isn’t that, not exactly. It’s… well. This was the first time you came home to me looking like that. Like it was - like this is our life, now, together. I know it’s only temporary, but something about living together… It just hit me, that one day, you might not make it home. That I might not even _know_ , not at first, not until I got the call… that I couldn’t keep you safe, and you…”

Fat, silent tears roll down her cheeks, and she’s shaking with barely suppressed sobs, now, and without even thinking about it, Morse goes to her, puts his arms around her. Damn the “right time”: if Joan is hurting, he can’t _not_ try to fix it. Or at least, be the person who’s in it alongside her. 

“I can’t keep you safe,” Joan laments against his chest. “I saw Ronnie die in front of me, and I couldn’t stop it, and what if this time, it was you I couldn’t save?”

Of course. Of _course_ her mind would go there, even all these years later. But what is he supposed to say to that? That it isn’t her fault? It’s true, but surely that isn’t what she needs to hear, not again. It’s clear she feels powerless enough without that reminder. He’s feeling rather helpless himself, at a loss for the right move. 

“I’m trying to… to be more careful,” he says slowly. “It’s not fair, certainly not to you, for me to take foolish risks or run off without backup. I’m not very good at looking out for myself,” he admits. “I think your father would give you a medal if he could, for prompting me to finally think twice before going off half-cocked. No one else has managed it.”

She hiccups out half a laugh.

“I don’t have to take every risk that presents itself to me, but even so, there is some risk inherent to what I do. I know that’s not news to you, but maybe… maybe it’s different, now. I realize at this point, I’m not just making decisions for me; it’s _our_ life, not just mine.” He takes a deep breath, knowing exactly what he’s going to say and everything it implies, yet plunging ahead anyway. “It isn’t as though this is the only job I can do, you know. I’ve thought about leaving the force before, maybe becoming a teacher or something. I do miss it, sometimes, academia. If that would be a happier life for us, I would do it.”

With a dismayed gasp, Joan pulls back and immediately starts shaking her head with a vehemence that startles him. “That’s not what I meant! I _do_ want you to be more careful, and I’m grateful you’re trying, but - Morse, being a detective is part of who you are, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. You wouldn’t be yourself without this: asking questions, solving mysteries, rescuing people, serving justice. Saving the world,” she adds, with a twinkle in her eye that has nothing to do with the glimmering tears.

“Right, but, there are other things—”

“Not for you. And not for me.” She cups his cheek, and there’s an almost overwhelming tenderness in her gaze. “For both of us, what we do is inextricably part of who we are. I _love_ how passionate you are about your work. And I love that you support me in mine. It’s not without its challenges, a relationship between two people who give so much of themselves to others, to trying to ease their suffering. But it is unquestionably worth it. Besides, you say today that you’re willing to leave all that behind for me, but what happens in a year? Or five, when the shine of something simpler has worn off, and you look back and wish you hadn’t made that choice? How could you not resent me for it?”

She’s right, of course, though he doubts he could ever hold something like that against her. Maybe, though, if he made a decision in the heat of the moment… He chooses to focus on the part of her speech that has his stomach in an altogether different sort of knots, however. “Do you mean to say you see a future for us in five years, then? One where you haven’t smothered me in my sleep for leaving my records playing too loud, or getting home late again, or abandoning another pair of socks between the couch cushions, or… any number of faults to choose from?”

She snorts at that. “Murdering a policeman in his bed seems an ill-advised move. The first suspect is bound to be his wife.”

His breath catches at that. “It’s just, we haven’t… we haven’t talked about that yet, exactly,” he says, a little faintly, and he can hear the wonder creeping into his voice.

Joan goes a little pink. “Oh. Well, it’s not as though… Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed, I just…”

“No, I - well, I’d like that,” he says lamely, inwardly berating himself for everything about how this part of the conversation is going. Disgraced Oxford man, indeed; where are all his many words when he actually needs them? “To talk about it, I mean. I haven’t got a ring, or anything - I didn’t think you’d be ready, yet. But I hardly think it comes as a surprise that I’ve thought about it.” His voice is getting stronger. “I want to marry you, Joan. To have a family - if you want, I mean; it doesn’t have to include children, it can be just the two of us. I’d be happy either way, as long as I had you.”

Joan is staring at him, blue eyes wide and sparkling; and though he’s nervous at first that she’s wordless with shock, the slow smile that spreads across her face assures him it’s something more like joy. 

“Well, I have to say, the past four years have done something for your proposal skills,” she jokes, and he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Certainly helps to be addressed as Joan now, as opposed to Miss Thursday - does wonders for a woman considering changing her last name, if her fiance-to-be can even bring himself to use her first.”

He starts to protest, but she shuts him up with a light kiss, then says playfully, “You know I love you, but you’ll have to do better than that for the official one, I hope you know.”

“Official?”

“Oh, yes, something much more romantic would do, I think. Maybe flowers. A ring and down on one knee, at least.” In a lilting tone, she adds, “And not that we need his permission, exactly, but for tradition’s sake, maybe tell my father you plan to ask…Wouldn’t do to have him put you in the ground before we even make it to the wedding.”

He wants to laugh, but he needs to hear this from her first. “Is that… is that a yes, then?”

“Now, now, Endeavour Morse, patience! I’m not going to spoil the ending before you’ve had a chance to do this properly.”

He does laugh, then, and there’s a note of a jubilant cry in it, too. The sound of her laughing in return nearly brings him to his knees. He tangles his hands in her hair, doing his best to ignore the twinge in his aching shoulder as he does, and, perhaps a little foolishly heedless of his broken nose, kisses the ( _unofficial_ \- for now) future Mrs Morse soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are! The end! Have I mentioned how much of this story - especially these final few chapters - surprised me?! (I suppose, with any luck, I've gone back and connected the dots enough so you were a little less surprised as a reader, but still.) And speaking of things that have surprised me... well. Turns out, I am incredibly reluctant to let this go for real, so: I can't make any promises yet, but there's a good possibility there may be some follow-up stories set along this same little canon-divergent path. Most likely oneshots, rather than anything as in-depth as this, and I'm not sure which of the kernels that keep popping up when I'm trying to sleep will actually develop into anything worth sharing. But, hopefully at least a couple of them will eventually!
> 
> Thanks again for joining me for this particular adventure!


End file.
